St. MARTIN'S EVE 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CAUmwp 
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 ST. MARTIN'S EVE
 
 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 a KobJl. 
 
 '" ^>MRS. HENRY WOOD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 " EAST LYNNE," " THE CHANNINGS," " JOHNNY LUDLOW," 
 
 ETC. 
 
 ^i.xttctf) ^i)ousanO. 
 
 LONDON: 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, 
 
 li3ublisf)frs in ©rtinarg to |t?rr fHajcstu tijc ©urrn. 
 
 1895- 
 
 (^All rights yeserz'ed.)
 
 VJQ.S-S2.3
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAFTER PAGE 
 
 I. The Little Heir ... ... ... ... i 
 
 II. Faithful to the Dead ... ... ... ii 
 
 III. The Unexplained Reason ... ... ... i8 
 
 IV. A New Mistress at Alnwick ... ... 28 
 
 V. On St. Martin's Eve ... ... ... ... 36 
 
 VI. The Alnwick Superstition ... ... 46 
 
 VII. A Shadow of the Future ... ... ... 55 
 
 VIII. Wasting away ... ... ... ... 65 
 
 IX. Changes at Alnwick ... ... ... ... 74 
 
 X. Miss Rose Darling ... ... ... 82 
 
 XI. Georgina Beauclerc's Love ... ... ... 104 
 
 XII. The Fair at Alnwick ... ... ... 123 
 
 XIII. Only as Brother and Sister ... ... ... 132 
 
 XIV. .St. Martin's Eve ... ... ... ... 142 
 
 XV. Conelicting Statements ... ... ... 152 
 
 XVI. Investigation ... ... ... ... 163 
 
 XVII. Honour's Ravings ... ... ... ... 174 
 
 XVIII. Adeline de Castella ... ... ... 190 
 
 XIX. Taking a Portraii ... ... ... ... 210 
 
 XX. Love's First Dream ... ... ... 224
 
 VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XXI. A Fading Child 
 
 XXII. All about a Stupid French Marigold 
 
 XXIII. Jealousy 
 
 XXIV. Foiled! 
 
 XXV. A Crisis in a Life 
 
 XXVI. The Sick Chamber 
 
 XXVII. The Little Child Gone 
 
 XXVIII. Mrs. Brayford's Beliej 
 
 XXIX. Louise's Whispered Words 
 
 XXX. The Reception of the Dead 
 
 XXXI. Unavailing Repentance 
 
 XXXII. Some Months Onwards 
 
 XXXIII. A Telegram ... 
 
 XXXIV. Walking out to Dinner ... 
 XXXV. On the Terr.\ce 
 
 XXXVI. Locked in ... 
 
 XXXVII. A Meeting in Paris ... 
 
 PAGE 
 
 243 
 255 
 273 
 288 
 
 305 
 319 
 332 
 
 343 
 356 
 365 
 376 
 
 395 
 414 
 
 432 
 441 
 
 45 1
 
 ST. MARTIN'S EVE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE LITTLE HEIR. 
 
 The dull sombre light of a November afternoon was rapidly 
 giving place to twilight. The day had been wet and cold; 
 and the sodden leaves that strewed the park of one of 
 England's fair domains did not contribute to the cheerfulness 
 of the scene. The mansion belonging to it stood on a gentle 
 eminence, well open to view, and looking boldly down on its 
 lands : a long but not high house of red brick, with many 
 windows ; a cheerful house, rising behind a wide and gently 
 sloping lawn, which on this ungenial day gave out as wretched 
 an apppearance as did all else of outward nature. 
 
 But if the weather was rendering the demesne desolate, it 
 seemed not to affect the house itself. Lights were gleaming 
 from many of its numerous windows, were passing from room 
 to room, from passage to passage ; and fires added their red 
 glow to the general brightness. A spectator might have said 
 that some unusual excitement or gaiety was going on there. 
 Excitement in that house there indeed was, but of gaiety none ; 
 for grim Death was about to pay it a visit : not to call any 
 waiting for him in weary old age, but to snatch away the young 
 and lovely. 
 
 Had you entered the hall, so bright with light, what would 
 have struck you most was the hushed, unusual silence. Nearly 
 all the servants of the estabHshment were gathered there ; but 
 so still were they, so motionless in their repose, that it had 
 something unnatural about it. They stood in small groups, 
 for the most part only half showing themselves, and gazing 
 towards a closed dining-room, sorrow and consternation im- 
 
 St. Martin's Eve, 1
 
 2 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 printed on their faces. Two physicians, ahiiost as hushed in 
 manner just now as the servants themselves, were partaking 
 of refreshment within it. The butler himself waited on them ; 
 and as he came out and crossed the hall with noiseless tread, 
 he repeated an ominous opinion he had heard hinted at. One 
 of the women-servants, her tears streaming, started up the 
 broad, carpeted staircase with impulsive but soft footfalls, and 
 a younger girl, looking frightened to death, followed her. They 
 stole along the corridor to the right, and halted at a door there. 
 AVhy, or for what purpose, they could not have told, since they 
 might not presume to enter the chamber ; for their lady was 
 lying there at the point of doom. 
 
 A handsome, spacious bed-chamber, opening into a dressing- 
 room, but the door was almost closed between them now. 
 Over the dressing-room fire was a tall, upright, middle-aged 
 woman, more intelligent and respectable-looking than are some 
 of her class. She wore a clean print gown, and a close white 
 cap shaded a cheerful countenance. The fire shone full on 
 her brown eyes, and on the tears that glistened in them. 
 Strange sight ! for the continuous scenes of sickness, some- 
 times of death, in which these hired nurses' lives are passed, 
 tend to render them callous to outward emotion. 
 
 Pacing the carpet slowly and sadly, his eyes cast down in 
 thought, was a little man of ruddy complexion, sharp, thin 
 features, and hair going grey with years. It was I^Ir. Pym, the 
 family medical attendant. His hands were clasped behind 
 him, as he walked, and his gaze, worn and anxious, was never 
 lifted from the ground. 
 
 " This will make the second case we have lost this year," 
 suddenly observed the woman, whose name was Dade, in 
 whispered tones. '• What can make it so unlucky a year ? " 
 
 The surgeon gave no answer. Perhaps he did not like the 
 "we" in her remark. But he knew that his duty was always 
 performed to the very utmost of his skill and power ; that it 
 had been so in the two cases to which she alluded ; and his con- 
 science, so far, was at peace before God. 
 
 "There are no further means that can be tried?" resumed 
 the nurse, using the words as an assertion, more than a questfon, 
 and she glanced towards the partially-open door connecting 
 the- two apartments. 
 
 " None," was the conclusive reply. "She is sinking rapidly." 
 
 A long pause. The nurse stood motionless, the surgeon
 
 THE LITTLE HEIR. 3 
 
 pursued his slow and noiseless tread. Suddenly he stopped 
 and turned his head, speaking in quick tones. 
 
 " Where's the baby, Mrs. Dade ? '_' 
 
 " He's in the cradle, sir, by her side. She looked as if she 
 wanted him left there." 
 
 And then the doctor remembered, and paced on as before. 
 He had spoken in momentary forgetfulness. 
 
 The silence within the sick chamber was as great and more 
 painful : the moments of bustle and anxiety had passed away. 
 The fire in the grate had burnt down to embers ; a pale light 
 was emitted from the shaded lamp ; the air was redolent, almost 
 to faintness, of perfume. Essences had been sprinkled about 
 in profusion, as if they would make pleasant the way to death ! 
 The heavy blue velvet curtains were drawn back from the bed ; 
 and, lying there, was a form young and fair, with a pale, 
 exhausted face. Ever ything in the chamber spoke of wealth, 
 comfort, luxury : but n ot all the wealth and luxury of the whole 
 world combined, had they been brought together, could have 
 arrested the fast- fleeting spirit already on its wing. On the far 
 side of the bed stood a pretty cradle, ornamented with blue silk 
 and lace : the little child so quietly and unconsciously sleeping 
 in it, had seen the light but yesterday. 
 
 Leaning over the bed was a young man bowed down with 
 grief, of attractive features and gentlemanly bearing. Not long 
 had they been man and wife ; but a year at most ; and now it 
 was hard to part ; doubly hard w'ith this new tie which had been 
 born to them. Yet they both knew it must be so, and he had 
 thrown his arm lightly across her, and laid his cheek, wet with 
 tears, against hers, vainly wishing, perhaps half hoping, that his 
 heart's bitter prayers might avail to renew her life. The silence 
 between them had been long and agonizing : each heart was 
 aching with painful thoughts ; yet it seemed in that last hour as 
 if they could not give them utterance. May Heaven shed its 
 balm on all such partings ! 
 
 He raised his face and pushed his hair from his brow as he 
 looked at her, for she had moved restlessly, as if in sudden 
 pain. It was not pain of body : of that she was free in this, the 
 passing : but pain of mind. An anxious care, one of the many 
 she must leave on earth, was pressing upon that lady's brain. 
 
 "When the months and the years go by," she murmured, 
 breaking the silence, and clasping her hands in feeble supplica- 
 tion to him, " and you think of another wife, oh choose one that
 
 4 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 will be a mother to my child. Be not allured by beauty, be not 
 tempted by wealth, be not ensnared by specious deceit ; but 
 take one who will be to him the loving mother that I would 
 have been. Some one whom you know well and can trust. 
 Not A stranger, not a " 
 
 " I shall never marry again," he interrupted in impassioned 
 tones, when his first surprise allowed him to speak. " You, my 
 first and only love, shall be the sole wife ever taken to my 
 bosom. Never shall another woman usurp your place. And 
 here I swear " 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! " she panted, laying her hand upon his lips 
 to stay the incautious words. " It were cruel of me to exact 
 such a promise from you : and it would be useless for you to 
 make it, for you would never keep it, save with self-upbraiding. 
 The remembrance of this scene will pass away ; the remem- 
 brance of me will pass ; and then you will ask yourself why 
 should your life be condemned to solitude. No, no. To 
 remain faithful to the dead is not in man's nature." 
 
 He thought in his own heart, honestly thought it then, that 
 her opinion was a mistaken one, and he marvelled that she 
 should so speak. He felt as sure as he could feel of anything 
 in this world, that he should prove a living refutation of it. 
 Dying though she was, partially oblivious already to earth and 
 earth's interests, she yet saw clearer into human nature than he. 
 
 " Yet oh, forget me not wholly ! " she whispered. " Let there 
 be brief moments when the remembrance of me shall return to 
 you ; when you will dwell upon me as having been the one you 
 once best loved on earth 1 " 
 
 Another deep silence from words, for he could not answer : 
 his sobs were choking him ; the pulses of his anguished heart 
 were beating wildly. She spoke not from exhaustion; and 
 several minutes passed on. 
 
 " What will you have him named ? " he asked abruptly, 
 pointing towards the cradle. 
 
 " Call him Benjamin," she replied, after a minute's thought, 
 and she spoke now with difficulty. " He cost Rachel her life, 
 as this child has cost mine. And oh, may he be to you the 
 solace that Benjamin was to old Jacob ; and may you love and 
 cherish this child as he did his ! " 
 
 Her voice gradually failed her, a spasm smote her features, 
 and she lay more heavily on the pillow. Her husband raised 
 her : he clasped her fluttering heart to his ; he wildly kissed
 
 THE LITTLE HEIR. 5 
 
 her pallid face. But that face was losing its look of conscious- 
 ness, and no tenderness could arrest the departing spirit. In 
 a paroxysm of alarm : as if, now that the moment had come, 
 it took him by surprise, a thing that had not been looked for : 
 he cried out to the medical man in the adjoining chamber. 
 
 Mr, Pym came in, followed by the nurse. He gave one 
 glance at the bed, and then whispered the woman to summon 
 the physicians. He knew their presence would be utterly 
 useless, but at such times man deems it well to fulfil these 
 outward forms. 
 
 They hastened up the stairs. They remained but a few 
 minutes in the room, and then left it; soon left the house. 
 The better part of that lovely lady had quitted it before they 
 did. 
 
 And it was only the previous day that the joybells had rung 
 out in the adjacent village on account of the birth ! Only this 
 same morning that the local newspaper, wet from the press, 
 had given forth the festal news to the world ! 
 
 "On the loth inst., at Alnwick Hall, the wife of George 
 Carleton St. John, Esquire, of a son and heir." 
 
 And the journal went its way, as journals do go their way, 
 into many a neighbouring home, whose inmates made their 
 comments on the one piece of news that was of more interest 
 to them than all the rest, and congratulated each other on the 
 birth of Alnwick's heir, little conscious of the tragedy that was 
 supervening upon it. 
 
 Amongst the houses to which the journal penetrated was one 
 on the other side the village of Alnwick. A small, unpretend- 
 ing dwelling, this house, standing a little away from the high- 
 road, but a pretty place withal, hidden amidst its surrounding 
 shrubs and trees. It was called "The Cottage." Its mistress 
 had named it so with a sort of affectation of humility, for it was 
 superior to a cottage, even to an elegant one. 
 
 Lying back in a lounging chair, in one of the pretty sitting- 
 rooms, where she had just thrown herself, not from illness but 
 from fatigue, was the owner of the house, when the newspaper 
 was taken in, A woman of nearly fifty years, but looking a 
 great deal younger, with her still bright blue eyes and her 
 auburn hair. She was a widow ; a widow for the second time. 
 Barely twenty years of age when her first husband, Mr. Norris, 
 died, she had soon espoused another. Colonel Darling. In ten 
 years after that she was a widow again, and had remained so.
 
 6 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 She chose to retain the name of Norris, without any right to it, 
 and her cards were printed "Mrs. Norris Dariing," so that 
 people, especially strangers, hardly knew by which to address 
 her, and sometimes called her Norris and sometimes Darling. 
 The fact is, Mrs. Darling was a little given to pretension, as 
 ladies will be, when conscious of a want of dignity in themselves 
 or their surroundings. She had been packing things all the 
 morning- she, her maid, and two of her daughters; for they 
 were summoned from home unexpectedly ; and she was falUng 
 into a doze when the footman entered. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked in peevish accents; and the man 
 looked up in surprise at hearing it from his usually easy-tempered 
 mistress. 
 
 " It is only the newspaper, ma'am." 
 
 " Put it down, Tomkins," she answered, too idle to take it. 
 " I think I was asleep. I am very tired." 
 
 The man laid it on the table and quitted the room, meeting 
 a staid-looking, rather old-fashioned young lady who was enter- 
 ing it, for whom he made way It was Miss Darling, and she 
 looked thirty years of age if she looked a day. But she was 
 only five-and-twenty. 
 
 "Well, Mary Anne, is it all done? " 
 
 " It is all done, mamma. Prance is waiting for Tomkins to 
 cord the boxes." 
 
 Mrs. Darling closed her eyes again, and her daughter took 
 up the unopened newspaper, when another young lady, very 
 much resembling the first, and looking quite as old, came in. 
 She gave a slight shiver as she passed the window, and began 
 to stir the fire. 
 
 " What a miserable day it is ! I wish we could put off our 
 journey." 
 
 " Where's the use of wishing that, Margaret ? " said Miss 
 Darling. " But it is miserable. Has Charlotte found the cover 
 of her desk ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I don't suppose Charlotte has looked for it. 
 I heard her tell Prance that none of her things must be forgotten." 
 
 "True. When did Charlotte ever trouble herself to look for 
 anything?" was Mary Anne Darling's response; but she spoke 
 it more in soliloquy than as a reply. 
 
 Margaret Darling — she was one year younger than her sister 
 — drew her chair in front of the fire, and put her feet upon the 
 fender.
 
 THE LITTLE HEIR. 7 
 
 " Is that the newspaper ? Is there any news, Mary Anne ? " 
 
 " Yes, there's news," was the quiet answer : but Miss 
 Darling's manner was always quiet. *' A baby is born at the 
 Hall." 
 
 " What ? " exclaimed Mrs, Darling, starting up as she caught 
 the words, and all her lethargy was gone. " Is the baby born, 
 Mary Anne ? " 
 
 For answer, Miss Darling read out the words : " On the loth 
 inst, at Alnwick Hall, the wife of George Carleton St. John, 
 Esquire, of a son and heir." 
 
 " I am glad it's a boy ! " exclaimed Mrs. Darling. " How 
 proud they will be of it! On the loth — that was yesterday. 
 Then rely upon it those bells Charlotte said she heard ringing, 
 were for this. And now, how can I manage it ? I must 
 contrive to see Mrs. St. John before we go away." 
 
 " But why, mamma ? " 
 
 " Why ? " repeated Mrs. Darling, turning rather sharply on 
 her daughter Mary Anne, who had asked the question. " Because 
 I should like to do so ; because it's neighbourly to go to her, 
 poor young mother ; because it may be months before we are 
 back here, and I have the opportunity of seeing her again ; and 
 because I'm curious to hear all the interesting particulars. That's 
 why, Mary Anne : and I shall go." 
 
 Mrs. Darling allowed no interference with her will — at least 
 from f/it'se daughters, and Mary Anne was dutifully silent. " I 
 was only thinking, mamma, what an unpleasant day it would 
 be for you to walk over," she presently said. " And I don't 
 see how you will have time for it." 
 
 "Plenty of time; and for the unpleasantness I don't care; 
 you never yet knew me to stop indoors for weather. Pretty 
 Mrs. St. John ! Let me read the announcement for myself." 
 
 She took the paper in her hand, and was gazing at the words 
 with a pleased smile, when the door again opened, and some 
 one else entered the room. A tall, elegant girl of apparently 
 only three or four-and-twenty, an imperious, regal, haughty 
 girl, whose raven-black hair was braided over pale, regular 
 features, and whose rich silk attire glistened and rustled as she 
 walked. Who would have believed that she was older by 
 some three or four years than the Miss Darlings ? — who would 
 have believed that they were even half-sisters ? — she, with her 
 stately beauty, her costly attire, and they with their homely 
 faces, old-fashioned look, and plain green merino gowns.
 
 8 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Mrs. Darling had two daughters who absorbed all the money 
 that she could spare for dress ; the eldest, Charlotte Norris, 
 and the youngest, whom you will meet by and by ; no wonder 
 that these two middle ones, Mary Anne and Margaret, with 
 their meek spirits and quiet tastes, were obliged to dress in 
 plain merinos. 
 
 " Charlotte, here's news in the paper," Mary Anne was 
 beginning, but Mrs. Darling drowned the words : and Mary 
 Anne saw with some momentary surprise, that her mother 
 had crushed the paper in her hand, as if not caring that it 
 should be seen. 
 
 " Charlotte, my darling, tvould you mind telling Prance that 
 I shall want my black silk cloak taken out of the hair-trunk 
 again ? Go to her now, dear, before she has it corded." 
 
 Miss Norris, who had still the door-handle in her hand, 
 quitted the room again. Mrs. Darling turned to her daughters. 
 
 " Say nothing to Charlotte of this announcement. I will tell 
 her of it myself. It is my pleasure to do so." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, mamma," said Mary Anne. " Of course 
 you know best." 
 
 Mrs. Darling did know best. At any rate, the two daughters 
 before her were taught to think so. Mary Anne and Margaret 
 Darling had been reared to implicit obedience in one respect 
 — never to question the line of conduct pursued by Mrs. 
 Darling to their half-sister; never to comment on it in the 
 slightest degree. Mrs. Darling folded the newspaper as small 
 as she could, crammed it into her pocket, and followed 
 Charlotte upstairs. 
 
 Later in the day she set out to walk to Alnwick Hall. It 
 was growing dark, and she had not intended to be so late as 
 this, but one thing or another had detained her. The Hall 
 was nearly three miles distant from her own home, through the 
 village of Alnwick ; but the road was by no means lonely in any 
 part of it. She walked quickly, not stopping to speak to any 
 one she met, and had left the village behind her some time, 
 and was nearing the Hall, when the death-bell of Alnwick 
 church rang out suddenly, but not very distinctly, on the heavy 
 air. It was quite dark then. 
 
 " Poor old Mother Tipperton must be gone ! " Mrs. Darling 
 exclaimed to herself, standing for a moment to listen. " Pym 
 told me she could not last long. Well, it was time : I suppose 
 she was eighty."
 
 THE LITTLE HEIR. 9 
 
 Not another thought, except of old Mother Tipperton, 
 entered her mind ; not the faintest suspicion that the bell was 
 tolling for one younger and fairer. She went on, over the 
 broad winding way through the beautiful park, and gained the 
 door of Alnwack Hall. 
 
 It might have struck her — but it did not — that besides the 
 man who opened the door to her, other servants came peeping 
 into the hall, as if in curiosity as to the visitor. She stepped 
 over the threshold out of the gloomy night. 
 
 " How is your mistress, Haines ? Going on all right ? " she 
 asked, rubbing her shoes on the mat. 
 
 " Oh, ma'am, she's dead ! " 
 
 Mrs. Darling certainly heard the words, but they appeared 
 not to penetrate her senses. She stared at the speaker. 
 
 "She is just dead, ma'am; not an hour ago. Two physi- 
 cians were had to her, besides Mr. Pym, but nothing could be 
 done." 
 
 Down sat Mrs. Darling on the hall bench. Perhaps only 
 once before, in her whole life, had she been so seized with 
 consternation. 
 
 '•'•Dead! Good Heavens! I came to sit half-an-hour with 
 her before leaving Alnwick, for I may not be back for months. 
 What an awful thing ! Poor Caroline Carleton ! " 
 
 Drawing her cloak around her, Mrs. Darling crossed the hall 
 towards the housekeeper's room, unconsciously calling the de- 
 ceased by her maiden name, the one she had longest known 
 her by. " I should like to see the nurse," she said, " if she can 
 spare a moment to come to me." 
 
 The housekeeper, a stout, very respectable woman, who had 
 come to the hall a year ago with its now dead mistress, was at 
 the table writing a note as well as she could for her tears, when 
 Mrs. Darling entered. Laying down her pen, she told all she 
 knew of the calamity, in reply to the low and eager questions. 
 But Mrs. Darling grew impatient. 
 
 "A fine beautiful baby, you say — never mind the baby, Mrs. 
 Tritton. What can have caused the death ? " 
 
 The stout old lady shook her head. " She died from ex- 
 haustion, they say, ma'am. But she had a fall a few days ago, 
 and I believe that had something to do with it. I can't bear 
 to thitik of it just yet. Alive and well and merry but a day or 
 two since ; and now dead ! It seems like a dream." 
 
 Her sobs deepened. The ready tears filled Mrs. Darling's
 
 lo ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 eyes. She wiped them away, and inquired what would be 
 done about bringing up the child. Mrs. Darling was a 
 practical woman, and had never allowed feeling to interfere 
 with business. 
 
 "That's the first great care," was the reply of the house- 
 keeper. "Mr. Pym does not know of any one just now that 
 could come in, I suppose it will have to be brought up by 
 hand : and the master, I believe, wishes that it should be. As 
 Mr. Pym says, the boy's so big and strong, that he'd bring him- 
 self up almost, if you put him outside the street-door. And it's 
 true." 
 
 " Does Mr. St. John take it much to heart ? " 
 
 " Ay, that he does," was the emphatic reply. " He is shut 
 up in his own room where he keeps his business papers and 
 things. But, ma'am " — and the tone was suddenly subdued — 
 " a body going by, and pausing a moment, may hear his sobs. 
 If any young husband ever loved a wife, Mr. Carleton St. 
 John loved his. Poor child ! she's gone early to join her 
 parents 1 " 
 
 Mrs. Darling, who had her full share of curiosity — and what 
 woman has not, in a case like this ? — stole upstairs to see the 
 baby ; to see the baby's poor young mother ; to talk for a 
 minute or two with the nurse, Mrs. Dade, who could not come 
 to her. And then she stole down again ; for time was getting 
 on. The housekeeper asked her to take some refreshment, 
 but she declined, explaining that a summons to her sick mother, 
 who was very old, was taking her and her daughters away from 
 home. They were starting that evening by the seven-o'clock 
 night train. 
 
 "And they are at the station already, I am sure," she said; 
 "and I must run all the way to it. Sad news this is, to cheer 
 me on my journey ! " 
 
 Sad indeed. And the public thought so as well as Mrs. 
 Darling. The same week the newspapers put forth another 
 announcement, 
 
 "On the nth inst, at Alnwick Hall, in her twenty-third 
 year, Caroline, the beloved wife of George Carleton St. John."
 
 ( II ) 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 FAITHFUL TO THE DEAD. 
 
 "To remain faithful to the dead is not in man's nature." 
 
 Such were the words spoken by Mrs. Carleton St. John in 
 dying ; and a greater truth was never recorded by Solomon. 
 
 The seasons had gone on ; spring had succeeded to winter ; 
 summer to spring ; autumn was succeeding to summer. Nothing 
 like a twelvemonth had passed since the death, and yet rumour 
 was whispering that George Carleton St. John had begun to 
 think of a second wife. 
 
 The baby had thrived from its birth. Mr. St. John appeared 
 to have an invincible repugnance to any woman's supplying the 
 place of its mother ; and so they fed the child upon the next 
 best food that was proper for it, and it had done well. The 
 housekeeper strongly recommended Mr. St. John a niece of 
 her own to take care of it, and the young woman arrived from 
 a distance ; a comely, fair-complexioned, nice-looking young 
 woman, named Honoria Tritton ; and she entered upon her 
 charge. All things went smoothly; and Mr. St. John's first 
 grief yielded to time and change : as all griefs must so yield, 
 under God's mercy. 
 
 Friends had come to visit Mr. St. John during the summer. 
 Relatives, they were, indeed, but distant ones. Gay people 
 they proved to be ; and they stayed on, and gradually the Hall 
 held its festal gatherings again, and its master began to go out 
 amongst the county families. Whether it might be to escape 
 the sorrow left on him by his great loss, or to make things 
 pleasanter for these visitors, certain it was that George St. John 
 no longer eschewed gaiety, whether in his own house or abroad. 
 Mrs. Tritton's opinion was, that he had invited his relatives to 
 stay with him, because he found his life now at the Hall so 
 monotonously dull. If so, their advent had had the desired 
 effect, and had taken him out of himself and his trouble. 
 
 It is surprising, when once an effort of this sort is made, and 
 we awaken from a prolonged grief, how easi/y that grief is laid 
 aside. Unconsciously it seems to slip away from us, and is 
 forgotten. From that eleventh day of November down to June,
 
 12 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Mr, St. John had done nothing but indulge his sorrow. It 
 had grown calmer, of course, by degrees ; but he had not in 
 the least striven to lift from himself its bitterness. No very long 
 term, some may say, this seven months ; but let me tell you 
 that it is long when given wholly to tears and solitude. A re- 
 action must succeed to all violent emotion, even to that caused 
 by the death of one dearly beloved ; and it came to George St. 
 John ; came with the sojourn of his visitors. A fortnight's 
 association with them, and he was not the same man. As host, 
 he had to exert himself, and with the exertion came the pleasure 
 in it. Ere June was ended, he had forgotten three-parts of his 
 sorrow. It seemed, as he might have described it himself, to 
 have slipped away from his heart, leaving healing and semi- 
 forgetfulness in its place. He would have told you that he 
 regretted his wife as much as ever ; but he did not do so ; for 
 other interests were reasserting their sway within him. Sorrow 
 had nearly spent itself, and was dying out. Do not blame him : 
 man cannot act against his nature ; least of all when in the 
 heyday of youth. 
 
 He could not offer a churlish reception to his visitors, who 
 had journeyed far to sojourn with him. They were of the 
 world, and expected to be entertained. Mr. St. John invited 
 people to the Hall to meet them ; and went out with them in 
 return. In July the county families began to seek their homes 
 after the whirl of the London season, bringing their guests with 
 them, and gay parties were the rule of the hour. Archery, 
 boating, lawn dances, dinners ; never a day but something more 
 agreeable to the rest succeeded to the other. Mr. Carleton was 
 pressed to attend all, and did attend a great many. Can you 
 wonder at it? Of great prospective wealth, heir-presumptive 
 to a baronetcy, and withal an attractive man — the world knew 
 how to estimate him. But the prize was not as great as it had 
 been, since no other woman who might succeed in gaining 
 him, or whom he might choose himself irrespective of any 
 seeking on her own part, could reasonably hope to give birth 
 to the heir that should succeed. That heir was already in 
 the world — the little child whose advent had cost a precious 
 life. 
 
 It could not be said that Mr. St. John had very much right, 
 especially now, to the name of Carleton. His name had been 
 simply George St. John, until he married the rich heiress, 
 Caroline Carleton : and with her property he had to assume
 
 FAITHFUL TO THE DEAD. 13 
 
 her name, for her dead father had so enjoined it in his will. 
 But for that expectant baronetage, he might have added the 
 new name after his own. As it was, he did not do so. The 
 new name was rather a convenience : there were several branches 
 of the St. John family, one of them far higher in the world's 
 social scale than George St. John of Alnwick, or even his uncle 
 the baronet ; and people fell into the habit of calling him Mr. 
 Carleton, as a distinction. The little child had also been 
 christened Carleton. 
 
 And so George Carleton St. John, yielding to the soothing 
 hand of time, forgot in a degree her who had lain on his bosom 
 and made the brief sunshine of his existence. He went out in 
 the world again, and held gatherings of his own, and was alto- 
 gether reinstated in social life. 
 
 On a lovely day in September, Alnwick Hall was filled with 
 guests. Chiefest of all the fetes by which that autumn and the 
 neighbourhood had been distinguished, was this last one held 
 at the Hall. Mr. St. John had spared neither pains nor money 
 to render it attractive : and he certainly succeeded. Brilliant 
 groups were in the park, in the temporary marquee on the lawn, 
 and in the house itself; a sort oi fcte-champctre. Was it out of 
 place, all that glittering gaiety, with the closing scene of only 
 ten months before? — the young life so suddenly sacrificed? 
 Perhaps so : but the idea did not once occur to George St. 
 John. It was not likely to do so now, when another was 
 casting her spells upon his heart. I have told you that 
 rumour had already whispered of a second mistress at 
 Alnwick. 
 
 In a pleasant room, opening on one side to the conserva- 
 tory, its front windows looking to the park, several ladies were 
 assembled. They were of various ages, of various degrees of 
 beauty. One stood conspicuous amidst the rest. Not for her 
 beauty, though that was great ; not for her dress, though that 
 was all that can be imagined of costly elegance ; but for a 
 certain haughty, imperious air, and a most peculiar expression 
 that would now and again gleam from her eyes. An expres- 
 sion that many had observed and that none could fathom ; a 
 sort of wild expression of absolute will. It was not often 
 noticed ; but it was apparent just now. You have seen that 
 tall, finely-formed girl before, her well-set head, her swan-like 
 neck ; you have seen the pale features, regular as any ever 
 carved in sculpture, the thin lips so firmly closed, the luxuriant
 
 14 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 raven hair. Quiet to a degree in bearing and manner, in spite 
 of her haughty air there was an indisputable attraction about 
 her. Could the rumour be true — that the greatest match of 
 the county was about to be laid at Charlotte Norris's feet ? If 
 so, what a triumph for her mother ; what a triumph for herself, 
 so proud and portionless. 
 
 Mrs. Norris (she was Mrs. Darling, you know) stood by her 
 side. Very pretty still, but not half as grand a woman as her 
 daughter. Charlotte looked well to-day; never better; in 
 her pretty white gossamer bonnet and sweeping white bernouse, 
 you could not have thought her to be much past twenty. 
 And the ladies around looked on her with envious eyes, and 
 repeated over to themselves, what a triumph for Mrs. Norris 
 Darling ! 
 
 Perhaps so ; but that lady was as yet unconscious of it. She 
 had no more idea that that particular triumph was in store for 
 her, or that Charlotte had, even in rumour, been given to Mr. 
 St. John of Alnwick, than had Alnwick's little heir, who was 
 crowing before her eyes at that moment. This was the first 
 time Mrs. Darling had been to the Hall since that melancholy 
 evening visit in the past November. Only the previous day 
 had she returned to her cottage home. 
 
 In the centre of the ladies stood a young woman, holding 
 the baby. That he was a fine baby none could dispute. He 
 was not indeed what could be called a pretty child, but a 
 rather unusual look of intelligence for one so young dis- 
 tinguished his features and his clear grey eyes, rendering his 
 face excessively pleasing. And had he possessed all the 
 beauty that since the creation of man has been said or sung, 
 those fair women, displacing one another around him, could 
 not have bestowed more praise upon him — for he was the 
 heir of Alnwick, and Alnwick's possessor was there to hear it. 
 
 George St. John's cheeks, were flushed with pleasure, and 
 his eyes shone as he listened to the flattery ; for he fondly 
 loved his child. The little boy wore a broad black sash on 
 his white frock, black ribbons tied up his sleeves, and his pretty 
 round fat arms were stretched out to any one who would notice 
 him. 
 
 "Yes, he is a fine little fellow," observed Mr. St. John, 
 more gratified as the praises increased. " He will walk 
 soon." 
 
 " Pray is that his nurse?" inquired Mrs. Norris Darling,
 
 FAITHFUL TO THE DEAD. 15 
 
 scanning the maid through her eye-glass. " ^^'hat is your 
 name, young woman ? " 
 
 " My name is Honoria, madam," repUed the girl, looking 
 pleased and curtseying, '' but they call me Honour. Honoria 
 Tritton." 
 
 " And what is the name of this dear child ? " asked Miss 
 Norris, drawing nearer. " I have always heard him called Baby." 
 
 " Well, his name gets abbreviated for the same reason that 
 we shorten Honour's," laughed INIr. St. John. " He was 
 christened Benjamin, but is universally known amongst us as 
 Benja." 
 
 Mrs. Norris Darling (let us give her both names once in a 
 way !) continued to examine the nurse by the help of the glass. 
 She needed a glass just as much as you or I, reader ; and had 
 she not been surrounded by that fashionable crowd, would as 
 soon have thought of looking at Honour through the ring of 
 her parasol. But pretentiousness is given to many little ways 
 pertaining to pretentiousness, and that is one of them. Mrs. 
 Norris Darling possessed an idea that an eye-glass added 
 immensely in some way to her dignity. She turned her glass 
 on Honour from top to toe, in the same cool manner that 
 other glasses are turned ; and she saw a sensible-looking young 
 woman, with a clear, fair skin, a good forehead, and truthful 
 light blue eyes. 
 
 " Honoria Tritton ? " she repeated. " You must be a relative 
 of Mr. Carleton St. John's housekeeper ! Have you had sole 
 charge of the baby ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, madam, the sole charge." 
 
 "It is a great responsibility," remarked Mrs. Norris Darling, 
 dropping the glass, and speaking, not to Honour, but to the 
 ladies around. 
 
 Mr. St. John had taken his child from the nurse's arms, and 
 was fondly caressing it. His very actions, his movements, 
 betrayed the depth of his affection, and a sharp feeling of 
 jealousy shot through the heart of the beautiful Miss Norris as 
 she watched him. " Will he ever love another child as he 
 loves this one ? " was the thought that arose unbidden to her 
 mind. No, never. Miss Norris ; you need not ask or wish it : 
 man does not love another as he loves his first-born. 
 
 But her beautiful features were smooth as polished crystal 
 as she drew near to Mr. St. John. He glanced at her with a 
 welcoming smile.
 
 i6 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Do let me nurse him ! " she said in low tones. " I 
 adore children ; and this one seems made to be loved." 
 
 Mr. St. John resigned the boy to her. She carried him away 
 into the conservatory, to a remote bench out of sight, sat 
 down, and amused him with her gold neck-chain. The little 
 fellow sat confidingly on her knee ; one hand enclosing her 
 fore-finger, the other grasping the glittering coil. Mr. St. John 
 followed her. 
 
 " Look at him ! " she said, her quiet face changed to rapture 
 as she glanced at Mr. St. John. " Look at his nimble little 
 fingers and bright eyes ! How happy he is ! " 
 
 " Happy in all things save one," whispered Mr, St. John, 
 leaning over the child, but gazing at herself. " He has no 
 mother to love and guide him." 
 
 Those unfathomable eyes of hers were cast down, so that the 
 eyelids concealed them, and a crimson flush mantled to her 
 usually pale cheeks. 
 
 " He wants a mother," proceeded Mr. St. John ; " he fuusf 
 have a mother. Not now will I urge it, when so many are 
 near ; but, Charlotte, you know whom I would entreat to be 
 that mother and my beloved wife." 
 
 A strange whirl of agitation shook her, impeding instant 
 utterance. Mr. St. John saw the signs, and laid his hand upon 
 her with a smile. 
 
 " Ought you to talk to me of a beloved wife ? " she asked, in 
 an impassioned tone, as she glanced momentarily up at him. 
 "She who lies buried in her grave was yours." 
 
 " I did not love her as I shall love you," he hastened to avow 
 — and in the moment's fervour it may be that he thought he 
 spoke truth. " Had I known you better then, I might never 
 have chosen her." 
 
 " Yet see how you love her child ! " 
 
 " And I will passionately love any that may be born to you, 
 Charlotte," he whispered. But the very remark, had Mr. St. 
 John been cool enough or wise enough to analyze it, might 
 have told him that her heart, even now, before she was any- 
 thing to him, was shaken by jealousy of the child. He was 
 neither cool nor wise just then. 
 
 He bent his head lower and lower ; he murmured vows of 
 everlasting tenderness ; he suffered his face to rest against hers, 
 as it had once rested against that of his dying wife. She 
 resisted not. But when a host of intruders came flocking in,
 
 FAITHFUL TO THE DEAD. 17 
 
 she raised her haughty head, and swept on with a scornful 
 step, as she resigned the infant into the arms of its nurse. 
 
 George St. John had loved his wife with the fresh, rapturous 
 feelings that he could never know again ; and he loved her 
 memory. Yet, here he was, ere ten short months had elapsed, 
 willing to swear to another that she was the first who had 
 awakened true passion in his heart ! But Caroline Carleton 
 had faded from his sight, and Charlotte Norris stood before 
 him in all her beauty. It is the way of man ; ay, and often 
 of woman. To remain faithful to the dead is not in man's 
 nature. 
 
 The fete w-as over, and they were driving home — Mrs. 
 Darling and her daughter. To judge by the manner of the 
 two ladies, one might have thought it was the mother who had 
 received so momentous a proposal ; not the daughter. Char- 
 lotte sat quiet and calm, leaning back in her corner of the 
 chariot ; Mrs. Darling was flushed, restless, evidently disturbed. 
 Mr. St. John had said to her a word of enlightenment in 
 parting, and it startled her out of her equanimity. 
 
 " Charlotte," she began — and not until they were drawing 
 near the end of their homeward road, and the village of Alnwick 
 was left behind them, did she speak — " Charlotte, I hope I 
 misunderstood Mr. St. John ? " 
 
 Charlotte lifted her eyes. " I do not know to what you 
 allude, mamma. In what do you hope you misunderstood Mr. 
 St. John ? " 
 
 " He hinted to me that he should call to-morrow to speak to 
 me about you. Charlotte, it will be of no use : I cannot let 
 you marry Mr. Carleton." 
 
 "Please not to call him by that name," was the quiet re- 
 joinder. 
 
 "Mr. St. John, then— what does it matter? I should not 
 like you to marry him. Has he really asked you to be his 
 wife ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " It must have been very sudden ! " 
 
 " Not so. I think we have understood each other for some 
 little time past." . 
 
 " Then he has been in the habit of coming to the cottage?" 
 
 " Oh yes." 
 
 Mrs. Darling, who had raised herself in some commotion as 
 she asked the last question, sank back again, and a look of 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. 2
 
 l8 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 mortification, of mental trouble, settled on her face. The 
 carriage was approaching their door ere she spoke again, her 
 tones betraying an agitation that was ill suppressed. 
 
 " I cannot spare you, Charlotte ! Charlotte, my darling, I 
 cannot spare you ! How often have I hoped, and urged, and 
 prayed that you would never leave me — that you would be the 
 one to stay and cheer my old age ! " 
 
 Charlotte shook her head with a smile. Had her mother 
 been less agitated, less evidently in earnest, she might have 
 enlarged on the unreasonableness of such a wish. As it was, 
 she only answered playfully, that her mother need not think of 
 old age these twenty years. 
 
 "Are you marrying him for his money — his position?" 
 resumed Mrs. Darling. 
 
 " I am tired, mamma ; I wish you wouldn't question me. 
 Really I can't exactly particularize why I am marrying him." 
 
 " You a second wife ! Have you reflected, Charlotte, that 
 Caroline Carleton was his first choice ; that there's already an 
 heir to Alnwick who will inherit all ; that George St. John has 
 hardly a shilling beyond his entailed estates " 
 
 " Don't mamma ! " was Charlotte's interruption, and her brow 
 had contracted as if in pain. '^ It is quite useless your saying 
 this. I should marry George St. John, though I knew that I 
 must beg my bread afterwards from door to door." 
 
 A moan, as of one in sorrow too great for utterance, broke 
 from the lips of Mrs. Darling, and she sank back in the carriage 
 and clasped her hands in pain. 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 THE UNEXPLAINED REASON. 
 
 Not a word was spoken by either mother or daughter as they 
 entered their home. The little French clock in the drawing- 
 room pointed to eleven — for the festivities at the Hall had been 
 prolonged into evening — and Charlotte, perhaps afraid of further 
 contention, said good night, and went up at once to her 
 chamber. Mrs. Darling threw off her cloak and bonnet and 
 began to pace the room. It was rather a habit of hers when 
 disturbed or vexed.
 
 THE UNEXPLAINED REASON. 19 
 
 Never had she been so disturbed as now. Her ordinary 
 crosses had been but Hght ones, which she scolded or talked 
 away ; this seemed to be too deep, too real, for any talking. 
 
 It might be unreasonable ; every one who knew of it said 
 it was so ; but Mrs. Darling had lived in the ardent hope that 
 her eldest daughter — more fondly cherished by her than all the 
 rest — would never leave her, never marry. She had planned 
 and schemed against it. Some two or three years ago, a 
 suspicion arose in her mind that Charlotte was falling in love 
 with George St. John, and she checked it by carrying off Char- 
 lotte, and keeping her away until the danger was over. He 
 had married Caroline Carleton before they came back again. 
 No one living had suspected this manoeuvre on the mother's 
 part, or that Charlotte had been in danger of loving the master 
 of Alnwick — if she had not loved him — except Margaret 
 Darling. Surely it must have been unreasonable. Mr. St. . 
 John was a free man then in every sense of the word, and 
 Charlotte's son, had she married him and borne one, would 
 have been the heir ! 
 
 That Mrs. Darling's love for Charlotte had always been 
 inordinate, those about them knew. But, as a woman of the 
 world, she might have foreseen how utterly powerless would be 
 a mother's love to keep her daughter always by her side. 
 Charlotte once said to her in a joking way, that she had better 
 put her into a convent, and make a nun of her : and indeed 
 that would have been about the only way of preventing it. 
 And now, in spite of her precaution, Charlotte was about to 
 marry; to be a second wife. That fact alone brought some 
 gall to Mrs. Darling. 
 
 She had deemed Charlotte so secure. She had never dreamt 
 of the treason that was afloat. Their visit to her old mother 
 in Berkshire had been prolonged until June, and all that time 
 Charlotte had been safe under her own eye. In June, old Mrs. 
 Darling (it was the same name, for Mrs. DarHng's second 
 husband had been a distant cousin) grew so convalescent that 
 they had no scruple in quitting her ; and Mrs. Darling had 
 despatched Charlotte to Alnwick under convoy of Mary Anne, 
 who was so much older than her years, and might be thoroughly 
 trusted. Margaret remained behind with her grandmother, 
 and Mrs. Darling went to France to see her youngest daughter 
 Rose, who was at school there. She only intended to be 
 absent a fortnight ; by the end of that time she meant to be at
 
 20 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Alnwick ; but ere it v/as concluded, she was summoned back 
 in haste to her old mother, who had had a relapse. So that it 
 was September before Mrs. Darling really returned to Alnwick. 
 She arrived just in time to attend the fete at Mr. St. John's, 
 and she went to it without any more prevision of what was to 
 happen than a child unborn. 
 
 It was the first time that Charlotte had been away from her, 
 and she was blaming herself bitterly. Perhaps self-reproach 
 was never sharper than Mrs. Darling's as she paced the drawing- 
 room this night. It seemed to her, now, that she might have 
 foreseen something of the sort ; that she should have kept her 
 attractive daughter under her own eye. But she thought she 
 had taken every precaution. She had charged Mary Anne not 
 to admit gentlemen as visitors during her absence — unless, she 
 had added, they were of a certain standing as to age, and 
 married. Some few she had especially interdicted by name. 
 Above all others would she have interdicted Mr. St. John of 
 Alnwick, had she supposed that this would be the result ; and 
 she mentally heaped the most bitter reproaches on Mary Anne, 
 and felt that she should like to shake her. 
 
 She turned to the bell with a sudden impulse, and rang it ; 
 indeed, Mrs. Darling was always an impulsive woman. All 
 the servants had gone upstairs on Mrs. Darling's entrance, ex- 
 cept the lady's-maid ; hours were early in the quiet household. 
 Mary Prance came in : a slender woman of five-and-thirty, with 
 dark eyes and brown marks on her thin face ; she wore a neat 
 grey alpaca gown and small white linen wristbands and collar. 
 A woman devoted to her mistress's interests, but disliked by 
 the servants, who w^ent so far as to call her a "deceitful cat." 
 But Mary Prance was a clever woman, and not deceitful on the 
 whole. She gratefully liked Mrs. Darling, who was always kind 
 to her, and she loved the eldest daughter; but she cared for 
 no one else in the wide world. She had entered the service as 
 housemaid, a young girl, but her mistress had called her 
 " Prance " from the first. Mrs. Darling — you remember the 
 hint I gave you — could not call her servants by their simple 
 Christian names. She turned sharply as the door opened. 
 
 "Where's Miss Darling?" 
 
 "Miss Darling has been in bed some time, ma'am. She 
 went at eight o'clock. Her sore-throat was painful, though a 
 trifle easier." 
 
 " Prance, who has visited here during my absence ? " inter-
 
 THE UNEXPLAINED REASON. 21 
 
 rupted Mrs. Darling, impatiently drowning the words. " What 
 gentlemen ? " 
 
 The lady's-maid considered for a moment, recalling the 
 visitors. " Dr. Graves, ma'am ; he has come the oftenest, I 
 think. And Mr. Pym, and old Sir William " 
 
 " Not those old people, Prance ; I don't care to hear about 
 them," scid Mrs. Darling, peevishly. " I mean young men — 
 single men." 
 
 " Not any, I think," answered Prance, after a pause. "Miss 
 Darling was denied to them." 
 
 " Mr. St. John of Alnwick has come ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, Mr. St. John has come. He has come often." 
 
 With the answer, Mrs. Darling quitted the room for the 
 chamber of her unconsciously offending daughter. The poor 
 girl woke up, hot and startled at the unexpected entrance ; at 
 the sharp questions that so rudely assailed her ear. Not for 
 some few moments did she understand sufficiently to answer, 
 
 Mr, Carleton St, Johi^ ? Yes, he had been there rather 
 frequently in the past few weeks. Plad Charlotte had oppor- 
 tunities of seeing him alone ? Yes, very likely she had ; it 
 might be so. 
 
 " Did you know," resumed Mrs. Darling, suppressing the 
 storm of reproaches so ready to break from her lips, " that any 
 attachment was arising between her and Mr. St. John? " 
 
 " No, mamma, I never knew it," replied Mary Anne, fully 
 awake now. " I did not think of such a thing. Has it arisen ? " 
 
 "Yes, it has arisen, you unhappy, careless creature, and I 
 fear that she's going to marry him," retorted Mrs. _ Darling. 
 "You are a hundred years older than Charlotte in staid experi- 
 ence. I entrusted her to your charge here as I might a younger 
 sister, and you have suffered her to meet George St. John, and 
 this is the result ! I shall never forgive you, Mary Anne. Did 
 I not warn you that I would have no single men calling here 
 during my absence ? " 
 
 " But— but — Mr. St. John is not a single man," returned the 
 unfortunate Mary Anne, too bewildered to collect her senses. 
 " Fm sure I did not think of him as anything but a widower 
 steeped in grief. It seems only the other day that his wife 
 died. I did not think of him at all as a marrying man." 
 
 Neither, in point of fact, had Mrs. Darling, or she might 
 have expressly interdicted his visits by name, as she had those 
 of others.
 
 22 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Mary Anne Darling was collecting her wits. She sat up in 
 bed, thinking possibly that might help her. "Mamma, you 
 cannot really expect to keep Charlotte unmarried ! Remember 
 her beauty. If it were me or Margaret, you might " 
 
 " You or Margaret ! " screamed Mrs. Darling, excessively in- 
 censed at something or other in the words. "I wish you 
 were both going to be married to-morrow ! or to-night, for 
 the matter of that." 
 
 " I was going to ask you, mamma," pursued Mary Anne, 
 meek still in spite of the covert sneer, " what objection you 
 can possibly have to her marrying Mr. St. John?" 
 
 • " That's my business and not yours," said Mrs. Darling, 
 tartly. 
 
 Mary Anne had never heard her mother altogether so cross, 
 never seen her so vexed, and the girl wondered excessively. 
 Hitherto, she had supposed the objection which existed to 
 Charlotte's marrying, and which she had not failed to detect, 
 arose from an exalted idea on her mother's part that no one 
 likely to present himself was worthy of Miss Norris in a 
 worldly point of view. But surely this could not apply to Mn 
 St. John of Alnwick ! She spoke again, pursuing her train of 
 thought. 
 
 "He will be Sir George St. John sometime, mamma; he 
 will be more wealthy than he is now. It is really a better 
 match than even Charlotte could have hoped for," 
 
 " I would give every shilling I possess in the world, rather 
 than Charlotte should marry him ! " spoke Mrs. Darling, in 
 low, determined tones. " I would sacrifice half the years I 
 have yet to live to keep her with me always ! I shall never 
 forgive you, Mary Anne. When you found that George St. 
 John was taking to come here, you ought to have sent me 
 word." 
 
 " Mamma, listen. I have told you that I never thought of 
 such a thing as that Mr. Carleton St. John came, or could 
 come, with any such idea; he, Avho has only just lost his wife. 
 But if I had thought of it, if I had known it, what would have 
 been my will against Charlotte's ? It might have pleased her 
 that he should be admitted ; and you know you have taught us 
 to give way to her in all things." 
 
 "Then you might have written to me. I repeat to. you, 
 Mary Anne, that I shall never forgive you." 
 
 "It must be, that he was previously married — that Char-
 
 THE UNEXPLAINED REASON. 23 
 
 lotte's children will not inherit," cried Mary Anne, speaking 
 aloud in her wonder, as she strove to find reasonable grounds 
 for the objection to Mr. St. John. "But " 
 
 " Hold your tongue," interrupted Mrs. Darling. "You have 
 done mischief enough, without seeking for reasons that may 
 not be disclosed." 
 
 More and more surprised grew Mary Anne. The last words 
 were not spoken in reproach or anger, but in a tone of deep, 
 bitter pain. They bore a sound of wailing, of lamentation; 
 and she could only stare after her mother in silence, as Mrs. 
 Darhng quitted the room not less abruptly than she had 
 entered it. 
 
 Mary Anne Darling lay down again, and curled the clothes 
 round her with a pettish movement, feeling excessively aggrieved. 
 But that was nothing new. She and Margaret had suffered all 
 their lives through Charlotte, and had never rebelled. Miss 
 Norris had been first and foremost ; had received all the love, 
 all the consideration, all the care ; the house had only seemed 
 to go on in reference to the well-being and convenience of its 
 eldest daughter. 
 
 Brought up to this from their earliest years, Mary Anne and 
 Margaret Darling had accepted it as one of hfe's obligations. 
 But the young lady Avas feeling now that she was being unjustly 
 censured. If there did exist any objection to Mr. Carleton St. 
 John, Charlotte should be blamed for falling in love with him, 
 or else be made to relinquish him. But Miss Darling did not 
 believe in any objection : she thought her mother only wished 
 to keep Charlotte to herself in her jealous affection. — that she 
 could not bear to part with her. 
 
 " I never knew anything so unreasonable," grumbled the 
 young lady, giving the pillow a fierce poke upwards. " Char- 
 lotte was sure to marry sometime, and but for her mother's 
 great watchfulness, she'd have been married before this. I 
 cannot understand mamma. What though Charlotte is the 
 apple of her eye, ought she to wish to prevent her fulfilling 
 woman's proper destiny ? The love of most mothers causes 
 them to wish their daughters to marry ; some to go the length of 
 scheming for it : in this case it is schemed against. It is very 
 selfish, very inconsistent; and yet mamma is not a selfish 
 woman ! I can't understand her." 
 
 Mrs. Darling's opposition was not yet over. She sat the 
 next day in her own room, thinking what an ill-used woman she
 
 24 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 was, calling up every little remembered cross of her past life ; 
 as many of us are prone to do in moments of annoyance, when 
 things wear a gloomy aspect. She had married — a girl not out 
 of her teens — Mr. Norris, of Norris Court, a gentleman whose 
 standing in the county was almost as good as that of the St. 
 Johns of Alnwick. But ere she had well realized her position 
 as the wife of a wealthy man, the mistress of a place so charm- 
 ing as Norris Court ; almost ere her baby was born, Mr. Norris 
 died, and the whole thing seemed to pass from her as a dream. 
 Had the child proved a boy she had been well off, and Norris 
 Court slill been hers as a residence ; proving a girl, it lapsed 
 from her to the next male heir in the entail. She turned out of 
 it with her baby, the little Charlotte, and a small income of a 
 few hundreds a year. These hundreds, at her own death, 
 would be Charlotte's. The pretty house she had since called 
 her home was in point of fact Charlotte's, not hers. It had 
 come to Charlotte on her father's death, but she had it to reside 
 in for her life. Norris Court was two miles distant from Alnwick ; 
 and Mrs. Norris in her young widowhood had quarrelled with 
 its new possessors. The breach had never been healed, so 
 that Charlotte was a stranger to her forefathers' home. Except 
 for this cottage and the few hundreds a year, all in expectation, 
 Charlotte Norris had nothing. How Mrs. Norris had bewailed 
 these past untoward circumstances, her own heart alone knew. 
 
 Her own subsequent marriage with Colonel Darling had not 
 greatly improved her circumstances in the long-run. At the 
 Colonel's death, the chief portion of what he had passed to 
 their son. A little was settled on the daughters, and Mrs. 
 Darling had a certain benefit for life. But altogether her in- 
 come was not a large one, especially considering her many 
 wants, and that she was not one who could make a sovereign 
 go as far as most people ; and Mrs. Darling was in the habit of 
 thinking that fate might have been kinder to her. In the lost 
 glories of Norris Court, present benefits, real though they 
 were, were overlooked. But for these comparisons, bred of 
 discontent, some of us would get on better in the world than 
 we do. 
 
 She sat in her own room, glancing back at these past griev- 
 ances, dwelling on others that were more recent. It was the 
 day following the fete. The interview with Mr. Carleton St. 
 John was over, and Charlotte was his promised wife. Mrs. 
 Darling had done what she could to oppose it — to the secret
 
 THE UNEXPLAINED REASON, 25 
 
 surprise of Mr. St. John ; but her opposition was untenable, 
 and had broken down. " If you have any tangible objection 
 to me, name it, and let me combat it as I best may," said Mr. 
 St. John. But apparently Mrs. Darling could bring forward 
 none, save the foolishly fond one that she could not part with 
 Charlotte ; -nd the engagement took place. As Mrs. Darling 
 sat now, alone, her mind was still busy with a hundred wild 
 schemes for its frustration. 
 
 But she saw clearly that they would all be worse than use- 
 less ; that unless there was some special interposition of 
 Providence, Charlotte would go to Alnwick, ^^'hat was the 
 secret of her opposition ? Ah, my reader, you must turn over 
 many pages ere you arrive at that. She had one very great and 
 good reason for dreading the marriage of her. daughter with 
 George St. John of Alnwick. 
 
 Charlotte happened to come into the room as she sat there. 
 ISIrs, Darling held out her hand ; and Charlotte — who might 
 have looked radiant with happiness but that she and her 
 countenance were of an undemonstrative nature in general — 
 came and sat on a stool at her feet, her dress, bright mauve 
 muslin, floating around, her delicate hands raised from their 
 open lace sleeves to her mother's knee. 
 
 " I must say a few words to you, Charlotte. Promise to hear 
 me patiently and calmly." 
 
 " Of course I will, mamma." 
 
 " There's no of course in the matter, I fear. Times have 
 been, Charlotte, when " 
 
 " Oh mamma, never mind all that. I'm going to be good. 
 Tell me what it is." 
 
 " Do you remember, soma three years ago — yes, it must be 
 quite three years now, for we did not leave London that year 
 until August — that we saw a good deal of George St. John ? 
 We had met him in London that season ; we met him on 
 our return here ; and he fell into the habit of calling on us 
 often." 
 
 " I remember," replied Charlotte. 
 
 " The beginning of October we left home for Paris ; a sudden 
 resolution on my part, you girls thought ; which was true. 
 Charlotte, I must tell you now why I went. I was taking 
 you from danger ; I was carrying you away from George St. 
 John." 
 
 A momentary glance upwards of Charlotte's eyes. Did Mrs.
 
 26 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Darling read anger in them ? That something made her quail, 
 there was no doubt, and she laid firm hold of both those 
 slender wrists resting on her knee. 
 
 " For your sake, Charlotte ; it was for your sake. I feared 
 you were growing to love him." 
 
 "And if I were ? " retorted Charlotte. 
 
 There was a long pause. Mrs. Darling appeared to be weigh- 
 ing some question with herself : she looked anxious, troubled, 
 undecided : but she still held the hands with a firm grasp. 
 
 " Charlotte, I want you to trust me. There is a reason, why 
 you should not become the wife of Mr. Carleton of Alnwick ; 
 but I cannot tell you what it is. I cannot so much as hint at 
 its nature. I want you to trust me that this cause does exist ; 
 and to act upon it." 
 
 " To act upon it ? " 
 
 " By declining to become Mrs. Carleton St. John." 
 
 "No," said Charlotte, very quietly. " What is the cause ?" 
 
 " My darling, I have said that I cannot tell you : and that is 
 why I ask you to trust me as confidently as you did when a 
 little child. The thought came over me just now, while Mr. 
 Carleton was here, to speak openly to him. The next moment 
 I felt faint and sick with dread at the bare thought. I may 
 not tell Mr. Carleton ; J. will not tell you " 
 
 " I do wish you wouldn't call him by that name ! " Charlotte 
 interrupted. 
 
 " My dear, it is that I have fallen into the habit of it," mur- 
 mured Mrs. Darling. 
 
 " It's like a scene in a play," exclaimed Charlotte. " I may 
 not marry George St. John for some reason, and I may not 
 know what the reason is ! He is not going to turn out my 
 brother, or cousin, I suppose ? Rather romantic, that, for 
 these matter-of-fact days ! " 
 
 " Oh, Charlotte, be serious ! Do not indulge in nonsense 
 now. You know that you are Charlotte Norris, and that he 
 is George St. John ; and that you never were related yet. It 
 is not that : I wish it were nothing else." 
 
 " What is it ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell you, Charlotte. I cannot ; I cannot." 
 
 " Have you heard anything against him, that you are con- 
 cealing?" 
 
 Mrs. Darling lifted her hand to her face, partially hiding it. 
 She did not answer the question.
 
 THE UNEXPLAINED REASON. 27 
 
 " Charlotte, you know how I love you. Well, I would almost 
 rather see you die, than married to George St. John. No 
 mother ever schemed to get her daughter a husband, as I 
 schemed thre* years ago to keep you from one, when my sus- 
 picions were aroused that you were in danger of loving George 
 St. John." 
 
 " The danger had ripened," said Charlotte, in low tones. 
 " I did love him." 
 
 " My poor girl ! And his love, though I did not know it 
 then, was given to Caroline Carleton " 
 
 " Don't say it ! " interrupted Charlotte : and for the second 
 time during their interview Mrs. Darling quailed, the tone was 
 so wild, so full of pain, " I do not wish to be spoken to of his 
 first wife," she added calmly, after a pause. 
 
 " You will not, surely, be his second, Charlotte ! Charlotte, 
 my Charlotte ! You will not break my heart ! " 
 
 " You will break mine, if you forbid me to marry Mr. St. 
 John," was the whispered answer. " But indeed, mamma, I 
 think we are talking nonsense," broke off Charlotte. "I am 
 no longer a child. I am nearly nine-and-twenty ; and that's 
 rather too old to be told I may not marry, when there's no real 
 cause why I should not do so." 
 
 " No real cause ! What have I been saying, Charlotte ? " 
 
 " I think there is none. I think what you are saying must 
 be a chimera." 
 
 Mrs. Darling let fall the hands she held ; she had only hoped 
 against hope. Charlotte rose and bent over her mother to kiss 
 her, whispering a (q\y decisive words. Cruel words to her 
 mother's heart. 
 
 " It is of no use trying to separate us, mamma. You did 
 enough mischief in separating us before — but until this hour, I 
 knew not that you acted intentionally. But for that, I might 
 have been his first wife, chosen before all." 
 
 Charlotte Norris was wrong, so far : Mn St. John's love 
 bad never before been given to her : it never would be given 
 to her as it had been to Caroline Carleton. The first fresh 
 green of the heart's spring had had its day, and was gone 
 for ever. 
 
 A few more days ; another attempt or two, futile as this one ; 
 a short, sharp battle with her secret wishes, and Mrs. Darling 
 gave up opposition, and grew apparently reconciled to what 
 she could not prevent. And in mid-winter, just after the new
 
 28 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 year came in, the newspapers had another piece of news to 
 relate, concerning Mr. St. John. 
 
 " On the 2nd of January, at the church of St. Mary, Alnwick, 
 by the Reverend Dr. Graves, George Carleton St. John, Esquire, 
 of Alnwick Hall, to Charlotte Augusta, only child of the late 
 Herbert Norris, Esquire, of Norris Court." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A NEW MISTRESS AT ALNWICK. 
 
 The mourning habiliments hitherto prevailing at Alnwick Hall 
 were put aside during the wedding-tour of its master, and the 
 servants appeared in gayer colours. Master Benja's grey 
 merino frock was exchanged for a scarlet, and the black sash 
 and sleeve-knots were replaced by white ones. Benja was a 
 sturdy little fellow of fourteen months now, sufficiently forward 
 in walking to get about the room and bring himself into all 
 manner of mischief. 
 
 A second marriage, a new mistress suddenly brought to an 
 established home, rarely gives pleasure to its inmates. This 
 applies in an especial degree to its women-servants. Whatever 
 the cause may be, or whence the feeling in the jealous human 
 heart takes its rise, it is an indisputable fact, that the second 
 marriage of a master is rarely liked, and the new bride is re- 
 garded with anything but love. The case was such at the 
 Hall. Tritton, the housekeeper, had lived in the family of 
 Miss Carleton before she was Mrs. St. John ; had come with 
 her to the Hall when she married ; and it was only natural, 
 perhaps chat she should look upon her successor somewhat in 
 the light of a usurper. Honour shared the feeling. Ardently 
 attached to her young charge, having been trusted with him, 
 possessing almost full control over him, the prospect of a new. 
 mother for the boy and a mistress for herself could not be 
 palatable. But both Tritton and Honour were conscientious, 
 good women ; and there is no doubt this feeling would have 
 soon worn itself out, but for circumstances that occurred to 
 increase it. 
 
 Mrs. Darling was not wise. Her intentions no doubt were 
 good, but her judgment was not so. From the day following
 
 A NEW MISTRESS AT ALNWICK. 29 
 
 that of the ceremony, when IMr. and Mrs. St. John were fairly 
 away, Mrs. Darhng haunted the Hall. Anxious for the com- 
 fort of Charlotte as she had never been for anything in her life, 
 she fell into the mistake of interfering with Charlotte's future 
 home before she entered upon it. She went about the house, 
 peering here, peeping there ; she had changes wrought in the 
 rooms, in the furniture; she found fault with the arrangements 
 made by the servants, who had done their best, and superseded 
 them at will. She changed the position of beds, she examined 
 linen, she turned Benja and Honour from their day-nursery 
 into another ; she ordered this to be done, she countermanded 
 that. This might have been tolerated in Mrs. Darling; indeed 
 it must have been ; but what the servants could not and would 
 not tolerate, was a second edition of it in Prance. Prance 
 generally accompanied her mistress to the Hall ; one or two 
 nights was left to sleep there ; Mrs. Darling's worrying orders 
 were often transmitted through Prance ; and Prance, as unwise 
 as her mistress, assumed a supercilious superiority (which in- 
 deed was partly her natural manner) excessively distasteful 
 to Mr. St. John's rather indulged but most respectable house- 
 hold. 
 
 It was a sad mistake. It was perhaps the first link in a 
 heavy chain, whose fetters would have to be worn for ever. 
 Mrs. Darling ought to have waited until her daughter came 
 home, she could then have suggested these alterations privately 
 to her if she deemed them so essential, and suffered Charlotte's 
 own authority to carry them out. How Mrs. Darling, a shrewd, 
 sensible, easy woman in general, fell into the error, must remain 
 a marvel. It caused the servants to look upon her as a 
 meddling, underbred woman, who was interfering most un- 
 justifiably in what did not concern her. She was really nothing 
 of the sort ; it all arose from her surpassing anxiety for Char- 
 lotte's comfort. 
 
 This, I say, must have been borne from Mrs. Darling ; but 
 when that unfortunate Prance came in, all the resentment was 
 turned upon her. Prance ordered after her mistress. Worse 
 still, she did not order as from her mistress, but as from her- 
 self; and her cold, you-must-obey-me tones, exasperated^ the 
 maids at the Hall almost to rebellion. Putting present ill- 
 feeling apart, the result was unfortunate : for it created a pre- 
 judice against their new mistress, which Mrs. St. John would 
 have to live down. Altogether, what with the advent of the
 
 30 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 new wife, the perpetual visitation of Mrs. Darling, and the 
 hatred to Prance, Alnwick Hall was kept in a state of internal 
 commotion. 
 
 In the midst of this, the day came round for the return of 
 Mr. St. John and his bride. In the afternoon. Master Benja, 
 in apple-pie order, the short scarlet frock and the white ribbons 
 • — for they were expected to arrive every hour — was toddling 
 about the nursery, drawing a horse. Honour, in a new cap 
 with white satin trimming, sat watching him, and talking to one 
 of the housemaids, Edy, who had looked in for a gossip. 
 
 It may be as well that you should notice how these nurseries 
 were situated. They were at the side of the house facing the 
 east. Mr. St. John's bedroom was at the end, looking on to 
 the park, and forming as it were an angle on that side the 
 house. You saw the room once ; some one was dying in it. 
 His room opened to two others, one on either side of it. The 
 one looking to the front was his own dressmg-room ; the other 
 looking to the side, had been called the dressing-room of the 
 late Mrs. St. John ; and all three rooms opened to the gallery. 
 It was this last room that had been Benja's nursery, and out 
 of which Mrs. Darling had turned him. The next room to 
 this, which opened to no other room, was the new day-nursery. 
 Honour and Benja are in it now. And beyond it, the last 
 room on this side the house, was the one in which Honour 
 and Benja slept. The next to this, the first one looking to the 
 north at the back of the house, was Mrs. Tritton's — but it is 
 unnecessary to mention that. The passage in which the doors 
 of these nurseries were situated was narrow, not like the wide 
 front corridor or gallery. Immediately opposite the door of 
 Benja's bed-chamber was the back staircase used by the servants. 
 Honour, with her charge, was the only one who assumed the 
 privilege of passing up and down the front stairs. It was as 
 well to mention this : you will see why, later. Honour bitterly 
 resented being turned from the nursery. It was unreasonable 
 that she should do so (though perhaps not unnatural), as the 
 room would be required for the new Mrs. St. John. 
 
 She was gossiping with the housemaid in the manner that 
 servants like to gossip, when a voice in the next room startled 
 them both. It was the voice of Prance ; and the servants had 
 not known she was in the house. 
 
 "There's that woman here again!" exclaimed Edy, in a 
 whisper.
 
 A NEW MISTRESS AT ALNWICK. 31 
 
 Honour had her finger to her Hp in an attitude of Hstening. 
 She wondered to whom Prance was talking. Tones that could 
 not be mistaken for any but Mrs. Darling's, answered her. In 
 point of fact, Mrs. Darling had come over to receive her 
 daughter, bringing Prance to carry a few last trifling belong- 
 ings of Charlotte's. 
 
 " Of course ! " ejaculated Honour. " I knew they'd be here." 
 
 Honour was good in the main ; sincere, thoroughly trust- 
 worthy ; but she was not exempt from the prejudice to which 
 her class is especially prone. You cannot help these things. 
 It was her custom, whenever she found Mrs. Darling and 
 her maid appeared upstairs, to catch up Benja and dart down 
 to the housekeeper's room, with a vague feeling, arising from 
 resentment, of carrying Benja out of their reach. She took 
 him up now, horse and all, and was making her way to the 
 back-stairs when Mrs. Darling suddenly looked out of a 
 chamber and called to her. 
 
 There could be no pretending not to hear. She had been 
 seen, and therefore was obliged to arrest her steps. It had not 
 come to open rebellion against Mrs. Darling. 
 
 " I want you. Honour. Step here a minute." 
 
 " Carry the baby down, Edy," whispered Honour, giving her 
 the child. " Tell Mrs. Tritton that they are up here, if she 
 does not know it," she added, as a parting fling. 
 
 When Edy reached the housekeeper's room, she found it 
 empty, except for the presence of a woman in black, who sat 
 there with her things on, and who laid siege to the baby as 
 if she had a right to him. It was the nurse, Mrs. Dade, who 
 came occasionally to see the child, as she had opportunity. 
 Edy, only a few months in the service, did not recognize her. 
 Edy willingly resigned the charge, and made her way to the 
 hall as fast as her feet could carry her : for a bustle in it 
 warned her that their new mistress had arrived, and all her 
 woman's curiosity was aroused. 
 
 She was crossing the hall on Mr. St. John's arm, a smile of 
 greeting on her pale face as she glanced to the right and left. 
 Mr. St. John laughed and talked, and mentioned two or three 
 of the principal servants by name to his wife. Edy stood in a 
 nook behind the rest, and peeped out ; and just then ]\Irs. 
 Darling, having become aware of the arrival, came down the 
 stairs with loud words of welcome. 
 
 The bustle over, Mrs. Tritton went back to her own room,
 
 32 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 shutting the door upon Edy. Nurse Dade had the boy on her 
 knee, talking to him ; and Honour, a privileged visitor, came 
 in. Honour's tongue could be rather a sharp one on occasion ; 
 but the unexpected sight of the nurse arrested it for the 
 moment. 
 
 " I should not have come up to-day, had I known," Nurse 
 Dade was saying to the housekeeper. " It must be a busy day 
 with you." 
 
 " Middling for that : not very. You heard of the marriage, 
 I suppose ?" 
 
 " I saw it in the newspapers. I had not heard of it till then. 
 I have been away for six months, you see, and news came to 
 me slowly. How well this little fellow gets on, Honour ! You 
 have done your part by him, that's certain." 
 
 Honour gave a sort of ungracious assent to the remark. 
 
 "What do you think she wanted with me?" asked she, 
 turning to the housekeeper, alluding to Mrs. Darling. " You 
 know that pretty sketch that master drew of Benja in the straw 
 hat, one day in the garden, and hung it up in his bedroom ? 
 Well, she called me in to say she thought it had better be 
 taken down and put elsewhere. I told her I must decline to 
 meddle with my master's things, and especially with that, 
 though it was done only on the leaf of a copy-book ; and I 
 wouldn't touch it. She first looked at me and then at the 
 sketch ; but just then there was a bustle in the hall ; she ran 
 down and I came away." 
 
 " And it's left hanging ? " 
 
 "It's left hanging. Ah ! " — and Honour drew a long breath 
 — " Nurse Dade, we have changes here." 
 
 " There's changes everywhere, I think," responded the nurse. 
 " But I must say I was surprised when I read it in the papers. 
 So soon ! and to recollect what his grief was then ! But law ! 
 it's the way of the world." 
 
 Honour took Benja, carried him to the far end of the room, 
 and began amusing him with his horse. They made a con- 
 siderable amount of noise, almost drowning the voices of the 
 two women by the fire. 
 
 " Do you happen to know her ? " the housekeeper had 
 asked, and the nurse knew by intuition that she spoke of the 
 bride. 
 
 " I've known her ever since she was a baby. My mother 
 was nursing at Norris Court, and I went there for a day and a
 
 A NEW MISTRESS AT ALNWICK. 33 
 
 night, and they let me hold the baby on my lap, to say I had 
 had It. I was quite a young woman then ; a growing girl, as 
 one may say." 
 
 " I don't know anything of her, hardly," said the house- 
 keeper. " I've not chosen to ask questions of the servants, 
 and I and Honour, as you are aware, are strangers in the 
 neighbourhood. Her father was a colonel, was he not ? " 
 
 "A colonel! No; it was Mrs. Norris's second husband 
 that was a colonel — Colonel Darling. Miss Norris's father was 
 Mr. Norris of Norris Court. Very grand, rich people they 
 were : but as there was no boy, it nearly all went from the 
 widow when Mr. Norris died. She married Colonel Darling 
 when the first year was out." 
 
 " She must have been very young," remarked the house- 
 keeper. " She does not look old now." 
 
 " Very young. I remember the first time I saw her in her 
 widow's cap. I began wondering how / should look in a 
 widow's cap, for she did not look much older than I was. She 
 was very pretty. People said what a pity it was Mr. Norris 
 should have died so soon and left her." 
 
 " What did Mr. Norris die of.?" 
 
 " I can't tell you. I have never known. There was some 
 mystery about it. My mother always said she did not know : 
 and I don't think she did, she was so curious over it. He was 
 ill about a week or ten days, but nobody was let go near him, 
 except Mr. Pym and the valet, and a man-nurse they had. 
 Some of the servants thought it was some infectious disorder : 
 but nobody knew." 
 
 "And he died?" 
 
 " He died. The little baby. Miss Charlotte, as she was 
 named afterwards, was born whilst he lay ill. My mother said 
 Mr. Pym took her in to show her to her father; which was 
 very wrong if it was fever ; and when Mr. Pym came out 
 his face was white, as if he had gone through some painful 
 
 scene." 
 
 The housekeeper, who was by no means one to deal in 
 mysteries, stared at the nurse. She had hushed her voice to 
 that tone we are apt to use when speaking of things that must 
 not be openly discussed. She sat gazing at the fire, as if 
 recalling the past, the black strings of her bonnet hanging 
 down. 
 
 " How do you mean, Mrs. Dade ? " 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. •'>
 
 34 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 "Mean?" 
 
 "You speak as if you were scared." 
 
 " Do I ? I suppose I caught the tone from mother : she 
 used to speak so when she talked of it. It was her way, when 
 there was any sort of mystery in her places. Whether she 
 came to the bottom of it herself, or whether she didn't, she 
 always used a tone in speaking of it that partly scared you and 
 partly sent you rampant to know more." 
 
 " But what mystery could there be in regard to Mr. Norris ? " 
 
 " That's just what I am unable to tell you. There was a 
 mystery : everybody knew that ; but I don't believe anybody 
 fathomed it. Whether it lay in his illness, or in his death, or 
 in neither, mother never knew. Sometimes she thought it was 
 connected with his wife. They had been a loving couple until 
 one night, when some dispute occurred between them, and 
 there ensued an awful quarrel : one of those dreadful disturb- 
 ances that terrify a household. Mrs. Norris, a gentle, loving, 
 merry young girl, as she had seemed until then, dashed her 
 hand through a cheval glass in her passion, and cut it terribly. 
 It all took place in their own room. Mr. Pym was fetched ; 
 and altogether there was a fine hullabaloo." 
 
 " Were you there ? " 
 
 " I was not there ; nor mother either. It was not for some 
 days afterwards that she was sent for to Mrs. Norris : but the 
 servants told her of it. Mr. Norris had been ill ever since ; 
 and three days later he was aead. The butler said — and he 
 no doubt had it from the valet, for they were great friends — 
 that it was that night's quarrel that killed his master." 
 
 " How could the quarrel kill him ? " cried the wondering 
 housekeeper. 
 
 Nurse Dade shook her head. " I don't know. All sorts of 
 things were said — as things in such cases often are, and per- 
 haps not a word of truth in any of 'em. At any rate, Mr. Norris 
 died, and nobody knew for certain how he died or what was 
 the matter with him, or what could have given rise to the 
 dreadful quarrel that led to it. There were but two persons 
 who could have told the truth— Mrs. Norris and Mr. Pym." 
 
 " Mr. Pym must have been a young man then," observed 
 the housekeeper, after a pause. 
 
 " About thirty, I suppose. He must be sixty now." 
 
 •' Mr. Pym's not sixty ! " 
 
 "He is hard upon it. Nobody would take him for it,
 
 A NEW MISTRESS AT ALNWICK. 35 
 
 though, he is so active. Mrs. Norris had to leave the Court 
 when she got well, for the new people to come to it ; she went 
 straiglit to the house she's in now, which of right belongs to 
 Miss Charlotte — I should say Mrs. St. John." 
 
 " I hope she's amiable ? " observed the housekeeper. 
 
 "She is when she likes, I believe. I don't know much of 
 her myself. She has a temper, they say — but then she has 
 been so much indulged." 
 
 "She is very handsome. But she's not in the least like Mrs. 
 Darling." 
 
 " She is very much like her father. Mrs. Darling's fair, Mr. 
 Norris was " 
 
 A clear, sonorous voice, calling "Benja," interrupted the 
 words. Honour heard it, for it penetrated even above the 
 shouts of the boy and the creaking of the steed. It was a call 
 she was accustomed to. Often and often, in passing through 
 the hall, going out or coming in, had Mr. St. John thus 
 summoned his child. 
 
 " Not the horse," said Honour to the boy, as she picked him 
 up. " Papa's calling. Benja shall come back to the horse by- 
 and-by." 
 
 Mr. St. John was in the hall, waiting. He took the child 
 from Honour, kissed him lovingly many times, and then carried 
 him into the drawing-room. Honour followed. She had not 
 been told to go down, and there was an irrepressible curiosity 
 in her mind to see Mrs. St. John. 
 
 She was seated alone, near the window, with a work-box 
 before her and some embroidery in her hand, looking as much 
 at home as though she had always lived there. Her raven hair 
 was partially turned from her forehead, showing off the finely- 
 cut but very thin features. Turning her head quickly at the 
 opening of the door, she saw her husband enter. 
 
 "I have brought you Benja, Charlotte. He must make 
 acquaintance with his mamma." 
 
 She rose with a smile, her dark-blue silk dress gleaming brightly 
 from its ample folds, met them midway in the room, and took 
 Benja. The boy, rather astonished perhaps at the summary 
 proceeding, stared at her from his wide-open great grey eyes. 
 
 " You will love mamma, Benja ? " she said, kissing him 
 tenderly ; and she placed him on her knee and held up to 
 him her shining gold chain, as she had done some two or three 
 months before. " Mamma means to love Benja."
 
 36 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 But Benja was impervious to bribes to-day, and would have 
 nothing to say to the gold chain. Suddenly, in the midst of 
 his prolonged stare, he burst into tears, with a great deal of 
 unnecessary noise. 
 
 " I am strange to him," said Mrs. St. John. " He will 
 know me better in a day or two. See ! what have I here for 
 Benja ! " 
 
 She took up a sweet biscuit from a plate that happened to 
 be on the table. What with the biscuit, and her persuasive 
 words, her kisses, Benja suffered himself to be coaxed, hushed 
 his sobs, and kissed his new mamma. 
 
 "Friends from this minute," she said triumphantly, glancing 
 up at her husband, who had stood by, smiling. " I will try and 
 be a good mother to him, George." 
 
 " I shall like her better than I thought," decided Honour 
 from the door, who could find no fault, even in her prejudice, 
 with her new mistress. " I shall like her much if she will only 
 love the child." 
 
 And thus the future lady of Alnwick had enterea on her 
 home. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ON ST. martin's eve. 
 
 " At Alnwick Hall, on St. Martin's Eve, the wife of George 
 Carleton St. John, Esquire, of a son." 
 
 This was the next announcement in the local papers ; some 
 ten months, or a trifle more, having elapsed since the last one. 
 And I hope you will have patience with these notices, and not 
 find fault with their frequency : they are not yet over. 
 
 "On St. Martin's Eve!" Was Mr. Carleton St. John a 
 Roman Catholic, that he should chronicle the birth of his 
 children by the saints' days ? No. And it was not by Mr. 
 St. John's wish that it had been so worded, but by Mrs, 
 Darling's. 
 
 It was no doubt a somewhat singular coincidence that this 
 second child should have been born on the same day as Benja, 
 the loth of November. Mrs. Darling, who was temporarily 
 sojourning at Alnwick Hall, and was naturally a little inclined
 
 ON ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 37 
 
 to be superstitious, regarded it as a most ominous event. 
 What, she thought, if the advent of this child should be 
 succeeded by the dreadful tragedy that had so fatally charac- 
 terized the last ? And it would perhaps hardly be believed, 
 but that some of you may have had opportunities of witnessing 
 these foolish fancies, that she dreaded the announcement 
 being made in the newspapers in the same words as the last. 
 
 " I cannot bear it," she said to Mr. St. John, *' I could not 
 look at it without a shudder. Put anything else you like, but 
 don't put * On the loth of November ! ' " 
 
 Mr. St. John laughed outright ; he could not help it. 
 " Charlotte is as well as she can be," he rejoined. 
 
 " I know ; but a change might take place at any moment. 
 Pray do not laugh at me, Mr. St. John. Call it folly ; super- 
 stition ; what you will ; only don't word this announcement as 
 you worded the last." 
 
 "But how am I to word it?" he asked. "If the child 
 was born on the tenth, I can't put it the ninth or the 
 eleventh. I won't send any notice at all, if you like ; I don't 
 care about it." 
 
 " Not send any notice of Charlotte's child ! " she echoed in 
 displeasure. " That would be a slight indeed." 
 
 "As you please. But you see the little fellow has chosen to 
 come on the tenth, and we can't send him back again to await 
 a more convenient day." 
 
 " Put ' On St. Martin's Eve,' " said Mrs. Darling, after a 
 pause of somewhat blank consideration. 
 
 " St. Martin's Eve ! " 
 
 " Yes ; why not ? It is St. Martin's Eve, you know." 
 
 " Indeed I don't know," returned Mr. St. John, very much 
 amused. " I'm not sure that I knew we had a St. Martin at 
 all in the calendar." 
 
 " That comes of your having lived so little out of England. 
 The English pay no attention to the saints' days. I have been 
 abroad a good deal with my children, and know them all. 
 St. Martin's is a great day in some parts of France. Please let 
 it be so worded, Mr. St. John." 
 
 He took a pen and wrote it as she desired, laughing much. 
 "I should like to see Dr. Graves's eyes when he reads this," 
 quoth he, as he put it into the envelope. 
 
 " A rubbishing old Low Churchman ! " slightingly spoke 
 Mrs. Darling. " He's nobody."
 
 38 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 So the notice was sent off; and in due time returned to the 
 house in the newspapers. Mrs. Darling carried one upstairs 
 proudly to her daughter. " See, Charlotte ! How well it 
 looks ! " 
 
 Mrs. St. John took the paper in her delicate hand and read 
 it in silence ; read it twice. " How came George to put it in 
 like that—' St. Martin's Eve ? ' " 
 
 " Because I requested it. You are quite well now, darling, 
 as may be said : but I would not have the announcement made 
 to the world in the same words as the last." 
 
 " It never could have been so made, mamma." 
 
 " Yes it could. Were not the two children born on the same 
 day of the year ? " 
 
 "Oh, that," coldly returned Mrs. St. John, as if the fact were 
 not worth a thought. " The other had an addition which this 
 must lack. It ran in this way : ' the wife of George Carleton 
 St. John, of a son and Aa'r.' " 
 
 Mrs. Darling made no rejoinder. But she cast a keen, 
 stealthy glance at Charlotte from time to time, as she busied 
 herself with some trifle at a distance. 
 
 Things had gone on very smoothly at the Hall during the 
 past few months. Mrs. St. John had been at least kind to 
 Benja, sufficiently loving in manner; and Honour liked her 
 new mistress tolerably well. The girl's feeling towards her may 
 best be described as a negative one ; neither like nor dislike. 
 She did not dislike her as she had formerly beUeved she should 
 do ; and she did not very much like her. 
 
 Perhaps if there had been a characteristic more prominent 
 than another in the disposition of Charlotte Norris, it was 
 jealousy. Mrs. Darling had been obliged to see this — and to 
 see it exercised, too — during the course of her daughter's past 
 life; and one of her objections to the master of Alnwick Hall, 
 as a husband for Charlotte, was the fact that he had been once 
 married and his heir was already born. That Charlotte would 
 be desperately jealous of the little Benja, should she bear a son 
 of her own, jealous perhaps to hatred, Mrs. Darling felt sure of: 
 she devoutly hoped there would be no children ; and an un- 
 comfortable feeling had been upon her from the hour she learnt 
 of the anticipated arrival. So long as Charlotte was without a 
 son, there could be no very formidable jealousy of Benja. But 
 there might be afterwards. 
 
 Certainly, there existed a wide dilTerence between the future
 
 ON ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 39 
 
 of tlie two-year-old boy, sturdily stamping about the gravel- 
 path underneath, the great St. Bernard's dog, "Brave," har- 
 nessed with tape before him; and that of the young infant 
 lying in the cradle by the fireside. Many a mother, far more 
 gentle and self-forgetting than was Charlotte St. John, might 
 have felt a pang in contemplating the contrast. Benja had a 
 title in prospective ; he would be rich amidst the rich. George 
 (by that name the infant was already registered) might count 
 his future income by a few hundreds. The greater portion of 
 the Alnwick estate (not a very large one) was strictly entailed ; 
 and the large fortune brought to Mr. St. John by his first wife, 
 was now Benja's. Mr. St. John would probably have wished 
 to do as well by one child as by the other, but he could not 
 help himself; he could not alter the existing state of things. 
 The settlement he had been enabled to make on Miss Norris 
 was very, very small; but he intended to redeem this by 
 putting by yearly some of his large income for her and her 
 children. Still the contrast was great, and Mrs. Darling knew 
 that Charlotte was dwelling upon it with bitterness, when she 
 laid that emphasis just now on the " son and heir." 
 
 That Mrs. St. John would inordinately love this child of hers, 
 there was no doubt about — far more so than might be well for 
 herself or for him. Mrs. Darling saw it as she lay there — lay 
 looking with eager, watchful eyes at the little face in the 
 cradle ; and Mrs. Darling decided within herself — it may have 
 been from experience — that such love does not bring peace 
 in its wake. " I wish it had been a girl ! " thought Mrs. 
 Darling. 
 
 Charlotte Norris had all her life been subject to taking likes 
 and dislikes — occasionally violent ones ; and she took a strong 
 dislike to the nurse that was now in attendance upon her, 
 barely suffering her in the room, and insisting on Prance's see- 
 ing to the baby instead, for Prance was at the Hall with her 
 mistress. The result was, that when, at the end of a fortnight, 
 Mrs. Darling quitted the Hall, Prance was transferred to Mrs. 
 St. John's service, and remained as nurse to the infant. 
 
 Some months went on, and spring came round. Mr. Carle- 
 ton St. John, who was in parliament, had to be in London ; 
 but his wife remained at Alnwick with her baby, who seemed 
 delicate. Not to have brought to herself all the good in the 
 world, would she have stirred without him. The frail litde 
 infant of a few days had become to her the greatest treasure
 
 40 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 earth ever gave ; her love for him was of that wild, impassioned, 
 all-absorbing nature, known, it is hoped, but to few, for it never 
 visits a well-regulated heart. 
 
 And in proportion to her love for her own child, grew her 
 jealousy of Benja — nay, not jealousy only, but dislike. Mrs. 
 Darling had foreseen correctly : the jealousy and the dislike 
 had come — the hatred would only too surely follow. Charlotte 
 strove against this feeling. She knew how wrong it was, how 
 disloyal to her husband, how cruel to Benja; and she fought 
 against it well. She would take Benja on her knee and fondle 
 him ; and the child grew to love her, to run into her at all 
 moments when he could triumphantly escape from Honour, 
 and she would take him and pretend to hide him, and tell 
 Honour to go into the woods and see if the little wild boy had 
 flown thither. It is true that once or twice, upon some very 
 slight provocation, she had fallen into a storm of passion that 
 literally rendered Honour motionless with alarm, seizing the 
 child somewhat after the manner of a tiger, and beating him 
 furiously. Honour and Benja were alike frightened; even 
 Prance looked on aghast. 
 
 Matters were not improved by the conduct of the two nurses. 
 If dislike and dissatisfaction had reigned between them when 
 Prance was only an occasional visitor at the house, how much 
 more did it reign now ! They did not break frequently into a 
 quarrel, but a perpetual system of what the other servants called 
 "nagging" was kept up between them. Fierce and fiery was 
 the disposition with which each regarded the other ; a war of 
 resentment, of antipathy — call it what you will — smouldering 
 ever in their hearts. 
 
 Itr-did not want fuel. Honour naturally wished Benja to be 
 regarded as first and foremost in right of his seniority and 
 position as the heir. Prance held up the infant as the chief; 
 and it need not be said that she was tacitly, if not openly, sup- 
 ported by Mrs. St. John. It was doubly unfortunate. The 
 squabbles of the nurses need not have done harm, but their 
 rivalry in regard to the children enhanced the feeling in their 
 mistress. To do Mrs. Darling justice, she absolutely discour- 
 aged any difference being made, even in thought, between the 
 children, if such came under her notice in her temporary visits 
 at the Hall ; and once, when she heard a sneer given by Prance 
 to Honour and Benja, she had called the woman to her privately, 
 and taken her sharply to task.
 
 ON ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 41 
 
 Well, the time went on to Easter, On the Thursday in 
 Passion-week Mr. St. John was expected home ; and his wife, 
 who loved him nmch, anticipated his return in a sort of im- 
 passioned eagerness, not the less strong because it was con- 
 trolled under her usual cold and calm demeanour. The pony- 
 carriage went to the station in the afternoon to meet the train ; 
 and Alnwick's mistress took her place at an open window that 
 overlooked the approach, long and long, before the carriage 
 could return. 
 
 It was a warm, brilliant day ; one of those lovely days that 
 sometimes come in spring, presenting so great a contrast with 
 the past winter, and raising many a heart to Heaven. As she 
 sat there, Benja darted in. The door was not firmly closed, 
 and the child pushed it open triumphantly and flew to Mrs. St. 
 John, black as any little tinker : hands, face, dress, a sight to 
 be seen. She wore a charming gown ot apple-green figured 
 silk, and a coquettish httle lace head-dress, fastened with large 
 gold pins. 
 
 "Benja, what have you been doing to yourself?" 
 
 Benja laid his little black hands on her gown, and told her a 
 tale not very easy to be understood — his grey eyes laughing, his 
 pretty teeth glistening. Brave had run somewhere, and Benja 
 had run after him, and the two — or perhaps only Benja — had 
 fallen down by the cocks and hens, where it was dirty. And 
 they had stayed down apparently, and rolled about together. 
 
 " Then Benja's a naughty boy to get himself into such a 
 state," she cried, having quickly interposed her handkerchief 
 between the silk and the dirty hands. " Where's Honour } " 
 
 Benja broke into a merry laugh. He had contrived to double 
 upon Honour and evade her, while she was looking for him. 
 
 The child kept his place at her knee, and chattered on in his 
 imperfect language. Mrs. St. John did not give herself further 
 trouble to understand it ; she fell into a reverie, her fingers 
 unconsciously rambling amidst the child's fair curls. 
 
 " Oh ! so you are here, sir ! " exclaimed Honour, looking in. 
 "My goodness ! I've been all over the house after you." 
 
 " Me wid mamma," chattered Benja. 
 
 "And a fine pickle you are in, to be with your mamma, 
 naughty child ! " 
 
 "You should not let him get into this state. Honour." 
 
 " It's not my fault, ma'am ; he ran away from me after the 
 dog."
 
 42 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 "Take him into the nursery," concluded Mrs. St. John, 
 turning her eyes again to the window and the winding road. 
 
 Honour carried him away, talking lovingly to him — that he 
 was a sad little boy to make himself so dirty, and dirty little 
 boys never went to heaven, unless they got clean again. And 
 Mrs. Carleton St. John sat on, dreamily watching. 
 
 The first thing that aroused her from it was the sound of 
 voices outside. She looked out and saw Honour and Benja. 
 Master Benja was now dressed in a handsome green velvet 
 tunic, and looked as if he had just come out of a bandbox. 
 Honour had her things on for walking. 
 
 " Where are you going ? " inquired Mrs. St. John. 
 
 " Me going to see papa," responded Benja, before Honour 
 could speak, his eyes bright, and his cheeks glowing. 
 
 " I am taking him to meet the carriage, ma'am." 
 
 " But " Mrs. St. John was beginning, and then suddenly 
 
 stopped ; and Honour was half scared at the blank look and 
 the momentary flash of anger that succeeded each other on her 
 face. " Why should you take him there ?" she resumed. "He 
 will see his papa soon enough at home." 
 
 "Why should I not take him, ma'am?'' rejoined Honour, 
 quite respectfully, but in a bold spirit. 
 
 And Mrs. Carleton St. John could not say why ; she had no 
 plea for refusal at hand. Honour waited a minute, but no 
 words came. 
 
 " It's as well to walk that way as any other, ma'am," she said, 
 taking Benja's hand. " His papa might be disappointed, else. 
 When he used to return home last year, and did not meet 
 Master Benja in the avenue, he'd cry out for him before he got 
 well inside the doors." 
 
 " Oh, very well," said Mrs. St. John. " Keep in this upper 
 part, within view." 
 
 They turned away slowly. Honour secretly rebelling at the 
 mandate ; and the mistress of Alnwick looked after them. She 
 had been lost in a reverie, anticipating the moment of her hus- 
 band's entrance, when, after her first welcome to him was over, 
 she should summon her child and place it lovingly in his arms. 
 It seemed that another child was to be first in those arms ; and 
 she had not bargained for it. One wild, unhealthy longing was 
 ever haunting, half-unconsciously, the mind of Mrs. St. John — 
 that her husband should love her child better than that other 
 one.
 
 ON ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 43 
 
 She ran upstairs to Prance. She bade Prance hasten to 
 attire the baby, and take him out to meet his papa. The child 
 was asleep. Prance glanced at it as if she would have said so ; 
 but her mistress's tone was imperative, evidently admitting 
 neither contradiction nor delay. 
 
 " Oh, so you've come ! " was Honour's salutation, not very 
 graciously expressed, when she found herself joined by Prance. 
 " What's the matter with him ? " 
 
 The question appHed to the crying baby, fractious at being 
 awakened out of its sleep. Prance, who rarely condescended 
 to quarrel in words, went on with her quiet step and supercilious 
 manner, her head in the air. 
 
 "Pve as much right here as you," she said: "and Master 
 George as the other. Mind your own business, and don't talk 
 to me." 
 
 Presently the carriage came in view, ]\Ir. St. John driving. 
 He pulled up when he found himself near the children, gave 
 the reins to the groom, and leapt out. Little Benja danced 
 about his papa in an ecstasy of joy, and Mr. St. John clasped 
 him in his arms. 
 
 Two minutes at the least elapsed before he remembered 
 Prance, who had stood perfectly still, she and her charge. He 
 turned to the baby to caress it, but his voice and face were 
 strange, and of course it set up a loud cry, the more loud that 
 it had not recovered its temper. Mr. St. John left it and 
 walked across the grass with Benja, his whole attention absorbed 
 by his first-born. The boy was sometimes caught up in his 
 arms for a fresh embrace, sometimes flitting along by his side 
 on the grass, hand in hand, the steel buttons on the child's 
 green velvet tunic flashing in the sun. He had taken off his 
 cap, throwing it to Honour, and his pretty curls blew away 
 from his brow with every movement, displaying that winning 
 expression of feeling and intelligence of which his features had 
 given promise in his infancy. 
 
 Mr. St. John waved his hat to his wife at the open window. 
 She had seen it all ; the loving meeting with the one child, the 
 neglect of the other. Passion, anger, jealousy, waged war 
 within her. She could no more have controlled them than she 
 could control the wind that was making free with her husband's 
 hair. All she saw, all she felt, was that he had betrayed his 
 ardent love for Benja, his indifference to her child. In that 
 one moment she was as a mad woman.
 
 4+ ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 What exactly occurred upon his entrance, George St. John 
 could not afterwards remember; he was too much scared, too 
 terrified, it may be said, to receive or retain any correct im- 
 pression. A strange, wild look on his wife's face, telling, as it 
 seemed to him, of madness ; a wail of reproaches, such as had 
 never been addressed to him from woman's lips ; Benja struck 
 to the ground with a violent blow, and his cheek bleeding from 
 it, passed before his eyes as in a troubled vision. It appeared 
 to last but a moment ; but a moment : the next, she had sunk 
 on a sofa ; pale, trembling, hysterical. 
 
 George St. John collected his scattered senses, and picked 
 up the child. He wiped his poor little outraged face with a 
 handkerchief, laid it on his bosom for an instant to soothe him 
 to composure, and carried him into the hall to Honour. The 
 girl cried out when she saw the cheek, and looked up at her 
 master with inquiring eyes. But his were averted. 
 
 " An accident," he quietly said. " Wash it with a little warm 
 water." 
 
 He returned to the room, closing the door on himself and 
 his wife. He did not reproach her by so much as a word: he 
 did not speak to her : he went to the window and stood there 
 in silence, looking out, his back turned to her, and his fore- 
 head pressed against one of the panes. 
 
 She began to utter reproaches now, sobbing violently ; fond 
 reproaches, that all his affection was lavished upon Benja, 
 leaving none for her child. He replied coldly, without turning 
 round, that his affection was as lively for one child as for the 
 other ; he was not conscious of any difference, and hoped he 
 never should be : but an infant of five months old who cried at 
 his approach, could not yet be made the companion to him 
 that Benja was. 
 
 •' Oh, George, forgive me ! " she sobbed, coming close to him, 
 and laying her hand on him caressingly. " I love — I love you ; 
 and I could not bear it. He is our child, you know; yours 
 and mine ; and it seemed as if he was nothing to you beside 
 Benja. Won't you forgive me ? " 
 
 He could not resist the pleading words ; he could not throw 
 back the soft hand that was stealing itself into his. " I forgive 
 it; if you think forgiveness lies with me, Charlotte," he 
 answered, turning round at last, but speaking sadly and quietly. 
 
 "You have not kissed me," she whispered, the tears chasing 
 each other down her cheeks.
 
 ON ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 45 
 
 He bent to kiss her at once : just in the same cold, quiet 
 manner in which he had spoken ; as if his mind were withdrawn 
 from the present. She felt it bitterly ; she blamed her " quick 
 feelings " aloud ; and when her tears were dried, she ran up to 
 the nursery in a sudden impulse, seized Benja, and sat down 
 with him upon Honour's rocking-chair. 
 
 There she fondled him to her ; she pushed his hair from his 
 brow ; she laid his hot cheek, clear again under the influence of 
 the warm water, against her own. 
 
 "Benja love mamma still?" she murmured softly in his ear. 
 "Mamma did not mean to hurt him." 
 
 And the noble little fellow broke into a loving smile in her 
 face, by way of answer, and kissed her many times with his rosy 
 lips. 
 
 "Be very gentle with his poor cheek, Honour," she said, as 
 she put him down and left the room. " It is only a little 
 bruised, I see." 
 
 "Then it zvas an accident, as master said," decided the 
 wondering Honoun "I declare if I did not think at the time 
 she had done it herself! " 
 
 Mr. Carleton St. John had not stirred from his place at the 
 window. He stood there still, looking out, but seeing nothing. 
 The entrance of his wife into the room did not arouse him. 
 
 " I have been to make my peace with him, George," she said, 
 almost as inaudibly as she had spoken above. " Dear little 
 Benja ! — We are better friends than ever, and he has been 
 giving me a hundred kisses of forgiveness. Oh, George, my 
 husband, I am so sorry ! Indeed, indeed, I will strive to 
 subdue my fits of passion. I will not strike him again." 
 
 But George Carleton St. John stood as one who understands 
 not. He did not hear : his thoughts were in the past. The 
 injunction — nay, the prayer — of his dying wife was present to 
 him ; the very look on her sweet face as she spoke it ; the faint 
 tones of her loving voice, soon to be silent for ever. 
 
 " When the months and the years go by, and you think of 
 another wife, oh, choose one that will be a mother to my child. 
 Be not allured by beauty, be not tempted by wealth, be not 
 ensnared by specious deceit ; but take one who will be to him 
 the loving mother that I would have been." 
 
 Bitterly, bitterly, the prayer came back to him. How had 
 he fulfilled it? He glanced round at the wife he had chosen, 
 and could have groaned aloud in the anguish of his remorseful 
 heart.
 
 46 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE ALNWICK SUPERSTITION, 
 
 The time went on at Alnwick Hall just as it goes on every- 
 where, and the two boys grew with it. It was autumn weather. 
 Benja was a sturdy gentleman of nearly four, strong and in- 
 dependent ; George, a delicate little fellow of nearly two, with 
 fair curls and a bright rose-tint in his cheeks. 
 
 Mr. Carleton St. John spent more time in London than was 
 absolutely demanded by his parliamentary duties, frequently 
 remaining there when the House was not sitting ; and during 
 his sojournings at the Hall, it seemed that he never wanted an 
 excuse for being away from home. Shooting, fashing, coursing, 
 hunting, riding about the land with his steward, superintending 
 improvements ; presiding on the small magisterial bench of 
 Alnwick ; going over to the county-town for more important 
 meetings ; staying a day or two with bachelor neighbours — 
 with one plea or another, the master of Alnwick Hall was 
 nearly always out. What his wife thought of these frequent 
 absences cannot be told. A dark cloud often sat upon her 
 brow, but things went on smoothly between them, so far as the 
 servants knew. It was whispered that George St. John had 
 not found in Charlotte Norris the angel he had anticipated : 
 how many men have secured angels in marrying for beauty ? 
 
 It was autumn weather, I say — September ; and ]\Ir. St. John 
 was at home. He had thought of taking a walking-tour in Bel- 
 gium during the month of October ; but an illness that attacked 
 Mrs. St. John caused him to be summoned to Alnwick. 
 
 A serious if not dangerous illness, and brought on by some 
 unseemly and violent fit of temper. Mr. St. John was growing 
 accustomed to hearing of these violent fits of temper now. 
 Four or five he had heard of during their married life, but the 
 one described in the last chapter was all he had himself wit- 
 nessed. Some temporary hurt to her child, through the care- 
 lessness of a servant, had this time caused it; and the immediate 
 result to herself was disastrous. Mr. St. John found Mrs. 
 Darling at the Hall, and INIr. Pym was in frequent attendance; 
 but she was already beginning to improve.
 
 THE ALNWICK SUPERSTITION. 47 
 
 Mr. St. John sat on a bench on the grassy slope before the 
 windows, idly revelling in the calm beauty of the September 
 day. The trees were glowing with the warm tints of autumn ; 
 and the blue sky, flecked here and there with delicate white 
 clouds, seemed to rise to a wondrous and beautiful height. 
 The two children, attended by their nurses, were gambolling 
 in the park with the favourite dog. Brave : their shouts and 
 Brave's deep bark reaching the ears of Mr. St. John. 
 
 He was plunged in thought, as he sat — rather lazy thought. 
 The children before him, the sick wife upstairs, and the not 
 very comfortable state of affairs altogether, furnishing its chief 
 themes. It had carried him back to his second marriage. 
 Caught by the beauty of Charlotte Norris, he had rushed into 
 the union headlong, giving himself no time for proper delibera- 
 tion ; no time, in fact, to become well acquainted with her. 
 " Marry in haste, and repent at leisure," he murmured to him- 
 self; and just then he became aware of the proximity of Mrs. 
 Darling. She was coming across the park, having walked to 
 her own house that morning, and back again. She was a great 
 walker, enjoying it thoroughly : and she came up with a merry 
 smile on her bright and still pretty face, as she nodded to her 
 son-in-law. 
 
 " How idle you look, Mr. Carleton ! " she exclaimed, as he 
 made room for her beside him. She generally called him by 
 that name. 
 
 " I have felt idle lately, I think. Did you find all well at 
 home?" 
 
 " Quite well. Mary Anne has the mumps ; but she is subject 
 to them. I told her to lie in bed and rub hartshorn on her 
 face. Is Charlotte up ? " 
 
 " I don't know. 1 have been sitting here these two hours." 
 
 " Mr. Pym said she might get up to-day for a short time, 
 provided she lay on the sofa. How those little ones are en- 
 joying themselves." 
 
 She pointed to the park. Mr. St. John was also looking at 
 the children, to all appearance. His right elbow_ rested on 
 the arm of the bench; his hand supported his chin, and his 
 eyes gazed out straight before him. In reality he neither saw 
 nor heard ; he was buried just then in the inward life of 
 thought. 
 
 "What causes these illnesses of Charlotte?" he suddenly 
 asked, without altering his position. " This is the second time."
 
 48 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 If ever there was a startled look on a woman's face, it was 
 on Mrs. Darling's then. " She is delicate, I think," was the 
 answer given, after a pause. 
 
 " I think not ; not naturally so," dissented Mr. St. John, with 
 emphasis. " I hear of fits of temper, Mrs. Darling, so violent 
 as to suggest the idea of madness for the time being," he 
 resumed. " That was the source of this illness, I understand. 
 The result was only a natural consequence." 
 
 "Who told you that?" eagerly asked Mrs. Darling. "Mr. 
 Pym ? " 
 
 " No ; Mr. Pym has never spoken a word to me on the 
 subject in his life. I mentioned it to him on the occasion of 
 the other illness, ten months ago ; but he would not under- 
 stand me — turned it off in an unmistakably decisive manner." 
 
 Mrs. Darhng bit her lips. That she was in some great and 
 annoying perplexity, none could doubt who saw her counte- 
 nance ; but she kept it turned from Mr. Carleton. 
 
 " I have witnessed one of these scenes of violence myself," 
 he resumed. " I declare that I never was so alarmed in my 
 life. I thought Charlotte had suddenly become mad." 
 
 Mrs. Darling's lips grew white. But the revelation — that he 
 had witnessed this — did not come upon her by surprise : for 
 Prance had told her of it at the time. 
 
 "If I mention this to you now, Mrs. Darling, it is not done 
 in the light of a complaint. I married your daughter, and I 
 
 must abide " he paused here, as if he would have altered 
 
 or softened the phrase, but went on with it immediately — " by 
 the bargain. She is my wife ; the mistress of my house ; and 
 I have no wish that it should be otherwise : but my object in 
 speaking to you is, to inquire whether you can suggest any 
 means by which these violent attacks of temper can be pre- 
 vented." 
 
 Still there was no answer. Mrs. Darling looked cold, white, 
 frightened ; and she turned her head further away than before. 
 
 "You have had a life's experience with her; you must know 
 a great deal more of this failing than I," resumed Mr. St. John. 
 "Has she been subject to it all her life?" 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Darling, speaking at last. "But not often. 
 I speak the truth in all sincerity, when I say that until she 
 married I cannot remember that she had been so put out more 
 than three or four times. It is an unhappy failing ; I acknow- 
 ledge it to be so ; but it is over in a minute, Mr. Carleton."
 
 THE ALNWICK SUPERSTITION. 49 
 
 " But think of what it is for the minute ! She might — she 
 might kill some one in one of them. I am sure she had no 
 control whatever over herself the day I saw her." 
 
 Mrs. Darling looked distressed, and spoke in pleading tones 
 of excuse. " She is always so sorry for it afterwards, Mr. 
 Carleton ; she is repentant as a child. You are very sweet- 
 tempered yourself, and perhaps cannot make allowance for 
 those who are otherwise," she added, turning to him with a 
 smile. " If you only knew how many thousands of violent 
 tempers there are in the world ! Charlotte's is only one 
 amongst the number." 
 
 "That is not the question," he hastily replied. " I have said 
 I am not complaining of the fact, and I am vexed at having to 
 speak to you at all ; I only wish to know whether they can be 
 in any way prevented." 
 
 " I don't know of any. It is very stupid of Charlotte ; very. 
 One might have thought her last illness would be a warning to 
 her ; and now this one again ! She will never have another 
 child to live, if this is to go on." 
 
 "It is not only the injury she does herself; there's the fear 
 of her doing injury to others. She might, I say, strike a fatal 
 blow; she is mad in these " 
 
 "No, no; not that," intermpted Mrs. Darling. "Pray do 
 not say so, Mr. St. John. She is not mad." 
 
 " I am sorry to pain you. I mean, of course, that while the 
 paroxysm is upon her, she is no more capable of self-control 
 than a woman absolutely mad would be. If there were any 
 means, any line of conduct we could adopt, likely to act as 
 a preventive, it should be tried. I thought it possible you 
 might have learnt how to check it in the past years." 
 
 " I never knew yet that there was any effectual remedy for 
 violent temper. A clergyman will tell you it may be controlled 
 by prayer; a surgeon, by the help of drugs; but I suppose 
 neither is certain always to answer. I had a servant once, a 
 very good and valuable servant too, who would fly into the 
 most frightful passion once or twice a year, and break all the 
 crockery." 
 
 Mrs. Darling spoke with a laugh, as if she would make light 
 of the whole. It jarred on the feelings of Mr. St. John, and he 
 knit his brow. 
 
 " Then there's nothing at all that you know of to be sug- 
 gested, Mrs. Darling?" 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. 4:
 
 50 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 '•'I really do not. But I think they will wear out of them- 
 selves : as Charlotte grows older, she must grow wiser. I will 
 take an opportunity of speaking to her. And she is so sweet- 
 tempered in a general way, Mr. Carleton, though a little haughty, 
 perhaps, that these few lapses may surely be pardoned." 
 
 Mr. St. John made no answering remark. He rose and 
 stretched himself, and was moving away. Mrs. Darling de- 
 tained him with a question. 
 
 " How did you learn that this illness was so brought on ? 
 Did Honour tell you ? " 
 
 " No ! I was not aware that Honour knew of it." 
 
 " Neither am I aware that she does. I mentioned Honour, 
 because I should suppose her to be more of a confidential 
 servant to you than are the rest, and might acquaint you with 
 what takes place here in your absence." 
 
 Mr. St. John brought his clear truthful eyes to bear stead- 
 fastly on those looking at him. He was open, honourable, 
 unsuspicious as the day ; but he could not help wondering 
 whether the words concealed any double meaning. 
 
 " I have no confidential servant, Mrs. Darling. If I had, I 
 should not allow him, or her, to repeat tales to me of the home 
 of which my wife is mistress. When Honour speaks to me, it 
 is of Benja ; and all the v;orld might hear, patience permitting, 
 for I believe she takes him to be a cherub without wings. The 
 one to tell me of it was Charlotte." 
 
 " Charlotte I " 
 
 The echo fell upon empty air. Mr. St. John had turned off 
 in the direction of the children. 
 
 "Is it this that has been worrying you in London ? " asked 
 Mrs. Darling, following him. 
 
 " Worrying me in London ? Nothing has been worrying me 
 in London." 
 
 " Has it not ? You were looking so ill when you got down 
 here : thin, and worn, and changed. I said nothing, for fear 
 of alarming Charlotte." 
 
 '•' I have not felt well for some little time. But it is really my 
 health that is in fault, Mrs. Darling ; not worry." 
 
 " You were worn out with the long session : those late hours 
 do fag a man. This country air will restore you." 
 
 " I hope so," he replied in a dreamy tone, and his eyes had 
 a far-off dreamy look in them. " It would not be well just yet 
 for yon little fellow to be the master of Alnwick."
 
 THE ALNWICK SUPERSTITION. 51 
 
 Mrs. Darling thought nothing of the remark : perhaps 
 George St. John thought as little. It was an indisputable fact 
 that he was looking thin, ill, not so strong as he used to look : 
 but many men, wearied with the late hours, the wear and tear 
 of a London season, look so every autumn, and grow robust 
 again by spring. 
 
 The fact was, he began to suspect that his health was failing. 
 And when a man, neither a coddler nor a hypochondriac, 
 suspects this, rely upon it, it is time he looked into the cause. 
 Mr. St. John was careless of himself, as men mostly are ; a year 
 ago he would have laughed outright at the idea of going to a 
 doctor. But the feeling of intense weariness, of almost utter 
 want of strength, which had come upon him in London, 
 coupled with a rapid wasting away, and all without any cause, 
 had forced him to Vv'onder what was the matter. He had 
 made an engagement for a walking-tour, and then doubted 
 whether his strength would be equal to it. That somewhat 
 aroused him ; not to alarm, more to a curiosity as to what could 
 be wrong ; and close upon that, came the summons to Alnwick. 
 
 For a day or two after his return, he felt refreshed, stronger, 
 better in all ways. But the momentary renovation faded again, 
 and by the time he had been a week at Alnwick he felt weaker 
 than he had felt at all. The day previous to this conversation 
 with Mrs. Darling, he spoke to Mr. Pym, telling that gentleman 
 that he thought he wanted tonics. 
 
 '^Tonics!" repeated Mr. Pym. "What's the matter with 
 you ? " 
 
 " Nothing that I know of. There it is. I haven't an ail- 
 ment in the world, and yet I feel so weak and get so thin. It 
 seems a sort of wasting away." 
 
 A recollection, sharp as a needle, and causing a great deal 
 more pain, darted into Mr. Pym's mind as he looked at him. 
 Other of the St. Johns of Alnwick had wasted away without 
 apparent cause ; wasted to death. 
 
 " We'll soon set you right again," said he, a shade more 
 quickness in his speech than usual. " You shall have some 
 tonics." 
 
 The tonics came ; and Mr. St. John took them. He tried 
 other means ; cold bathing, driving out, living almost in the 
 open air; but he did not grow stronger, 
 
 " Didn't my father waste away like this ? " he suddenly said 
 to Mr. Pym, one day.
 
 52 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Oh, pooh, no ! " quite angrily replied the surgeon. "Your 
 father had a peck of troubles upon him — and I'm sure you 
 can't remember anything about him, for you were only five 
 years old when he died." 
 
 George St. John laughed. *' You need not fear frightening 
 me, Pym. I think he did waste away ; but that's no reason, 
 you know, why I should do so." 
 
 He said nothing to his wife of this feeling of indisposition, or 
 that he was consulting Mr. Pym. This was from no particular 
 wish of suppressing it ; more, that he really did not think it 
 sufficiently important to speak about. But it came to her 
 knowledge incidentally. 
 
 She grew strong again, and was sitting on the slopes one 
 afternoon with her embroidery, quiet, gentle, smiling, as if not 
 a cloud of anger had ever distorted her fair features, when she 
 saw Mr. Pym approach and enter the house. It suddenly 
 occurred to her that she had so seen him once or twice lately, 
 and had wondered, in a passing way, what he wanted. 
 Certainly his visits were not to her now. 
 
 " What can it be that he comes for ? " she said aloud, pausing 
 in her work, and gazing at the door through which Mr. Pym 
 had disappeared. 
 
 If the question was not addressed to air, it must have been 
 meant for Benja, that young gentleman being the only person 
 within sight and hearing. He was sitting astride on the arm of 
 the bench at Mrs. St. John's elbow, absorbed in a new picture- 
 book that Honour had bought him, and teasing Mrs. St. John's 
 patience out with his demands that she should admire its 
 marvels. 
 
 " Mr. Pym comes for papa," said quick Benja. 
 
 " For papa ! " she repeated. " Nonsense, Benja'! Papa's 
 not ill. He's looking very thin, but I am sure he's not ill." 
 
 " Mr. Pym comes for him, and he sends him physic," per- 
 sisted Benja, " For I was in the room yesterday, mamma, and 
 heard them talking." 
 
 Mrs. St. John thought this rather singular. Presently she 
 saw Mj. Pym and her husband come out and go strolling 
 down the avenue together. The latter soon turned back. 
 
 " Benja, go and tell papa that I want him." 
 
 Mr. St. John caught up Benja when the boy met him, kissed 
 him, fondly put him down again, and the two came on together ; 
 Benja leaping and holding his papa's hand. Mrs. St. John was
 
 THE ALNWICK SUPERSTITION. 53 
 
 watching with compressed lips. Even still she could not bear 
 to see the love of her husband for Benja. It was very foolish 
 of her, very wrong, and she knew herself that it was so : but, 
 strive against it as she would, as she did, the feeling kept its 
 mastery over her. 
 
 "George, what is the matter with you?" she asked, as her 
 husband sat down beside her, and Benja ran off with his 
 pictures. " Why does Mr. Pym come ? " 
 
 " I think he comes partly because he likes the walk," was the 
 answer, given with a smile. "I asked him for some tonics 
 during the time he was attending you, and he constituted me a 
 patient directly. It's the way with doctors." 
 
 " Don't you feel well ? " 
 
 "I don't feel strong. It's nothing, I suppose. You need 
 not look alarmed, Charlotte." 
 
 Mrs. St. John was looking more surprised than alarmed. 
 She wondered her husband had concealed it, she said, half 
 reproachfully. 
 
 "My dear, there was no concealment in the case. I felt 
 languid, and spoke to Pym : that was all. It was not worth 
 mentioning." 
 
 "You have no complaint, George?" 
 
 " None whatever, that I know of" 
 
 " And are in no pain ? " 
 
 " None." 
 
 "Then it can't be anything serious," she said, reassured. 
 
 " Of course it can't. Unless any one chooses to look at it 
 ominously. I accuse Pym of doing so, and he retorts by 
 wanting to know if I think him superstitious. There's an old 
 belief abroad, you must know, Charlotte, that the St. Johns of 
 Alnwick never live to see their thirty-third birthday." 
 
 She looked up at him. He was speaking half jestingly, half 
 seriously ; with a smile, but not a gay one, on his lips. 
 
 "■ But that's not true, George ? " 
 
 " As true as most of such sayings are, invented by old 
 women over their tea-cups. It need not alarm either of us, 
 Charlotte." 
 
 " But I mean, it is not true that such a belief is abroad ? " 
 
 "Oh, thats true enough. Ask Pym. A great many of us 
 have died just about that age ; there's no denying it ; and I 
 presume that this has given rise to the popular fiincy." 
 
 "What have they died of?"
 
 54 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Some of one thing, some of another. A large proportion 
 of the whole have fallen in battle. My great-grandfather died 
 early, leaving seven little sons. Three of them were taken in 
 childhood ; the other four lived to see thirty, but not one, of 
 them saw thirty-three. I imagine that the premature death of 
 so large a number of sons must have chiefly given rise to the 
 superstition. Any way, there's no denying the fact that the St. 
 Johns of Alnwick have not been long-lived." 
 
 " And the St. Johns of Castle Wafer ? " 
 
 "It does not apply to them. Why, Isaac St. John is now 
 all but fifty. It is owing to this mortality that Alnwick has 
 been so often held by a minor. The Hall came to me when 
 I was five years old." 
 
 " But George " — and she spoke hesitatingly and wistfully — 
 " you don't think there's anything in it ? " 
 
 " Of course I don't. Should I be telling j'ou this gossip if 
 I did?" 
 
 She thought not, either. She glanced at his fresh com- 
 plexion, so bright and clear ; at the rose-red on his cheeks, 
 speaking, apparently, of health ; and her mind grew easy, and 
 she laughed with him. 
 
 " George ! you are now thirty-three ! " 
 
 " No. I shall be thirty-three next May, if I live until then." 
 
 " If you live till then," she echoed. " Does that imply a 
 doubt of it in your own mind ? " 
 
 " Not at all. I dare say I am in no more danger of dying 
 than others — than Mr. Pym — than old Dr. Graves — than any 
 man you like to think of. In one sense we are all in danger 
 of it, danger continually ; and, Charlotte, when any circum- 
 stance brings this fact to our minds — for we forget it too 
 much — I think it should serve to make us very regardful of 
 each other, more cautious to avoid inflicting pain on those we 
 love." 
 
 His words and tone conveyed a pointed meaning. She 
 raised her eyes inquiringly. 
 
 "Subdue those fits of temper for my sake, Charlotte," he 
 whispered, letting his hand fall on hers. "You don't know 
 how they pain me. I might recall to you their unseemliness, 
 I might urge the sad example they give the children ; but I 
 would rather ask it by your love for me. A little effort of 
 will ; a little patient self-control, and you would subdue them." 
 
 "I will, George, I will," she answered, with earnest, willing
 
 A SHADOW OF THE FUTURE. 55 
 
 acquiescence. And there was a look that told of resolution in 
 her strange and dreamy eyes, as they seemed to gaze before 
 her into a far-off vision of the future. 
 
 And all in a moment a thought rose up within her — a con- 
 viction, if you will — that this fancy, belief, superstition — call it 
 what you please — of the premature deaths of the masters of 
 Alnwick, must have been the secret and still unexplained cause 
 of her mother's opposition to the match. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A SHADOW OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 October came in, and .was passing. George St. John sat at 
 his desk, reading over a letter he had just penned, preparatory 
 to folding it. It may facilitate matters if we read it also. 
 
 " My dear Mr. St. John, 
 
 " ' It behoves all sane men to make a will.' Do you 
 recognize the sentence ? It was from your own lips I heard it 
 spoken, years ago, when I was a litde chap in tunics, and 
 somehow it has never left my memory. Then, you will say, 
 why have you, George St. John, lived to your present age and 
 never made one ? And in truth I can only plead carelessness 
 as the excuse. I am about to remedy the omission. Not that 
 there would be much trouble with my affairs were I to die 
 without leaving a will, as Benja takes nearly all I possess ; and 
 there's my wife's marriage-settlement — you know how poor it 
 is_to claim the remainder. On that score, therefore, the 
 obligation is not a very onerous one ; and perhaps that fact 
 may have induced the carelessness I admit. But there is 
 another phase of the question that has latterly forced itself on 
 my attention— the necessity for providing proper guardians for 
 my children in the event of my death. 
 
 " Will you, Isaac St. John, good and true man that you are, 
 be this guardian ? I say, ' this guardian ; ' for though another 
 will be associated with you for form's sake, I shall wish you to 
 be the acting one. The other of whom I have thought is 
 General Carleton, my late wife's uncle ; and the General, being 
 a bilious old Indian, will not like to have any active trouble
 
 56 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 thrust upon him. I hope, however, the charge would not 
 entail trouble upon you, any more than upon him ; as my 
 present wife will be constituted the children's personal guardian. 
 Let me have an answer from you at your convenience, but do 
 not refuse my request. 
 
 " Give my kind regards to Mrs. St. John. Is Fred with 
 you ? What about Lady Anne ? 
 
 " Believe me, 
 " Ever your sincere friend and cousin, 
 
 " George Carleton St. John." 
 
 The letter was folded, sealed, and addressed to Isaac St. 
 John, Esquire, of Castle Wafer. George St. John laid it aside 
 with others for the post, and then turned to a mass of papers, 
 which he began to sort and look into. Indeed, he seemed 
 latterly to have taken quite a mania for arranging his affairs 
 and putting them in order : and his steward said privately to a 
 friend, that Mr. St. John was growing as methodical as he had 
 formerly been careless. 
 
 Whilst he was thus engaged, his wife came in, Georgy in her 
 arms, whom she was making believe to scold. The two-year- 
 old boy, indulged, wilful, rather passionate, did just as he liked, 
 and he had now chosen to pull his mamma's hair down. He 
 was a loving, charming little fellow ; and whatever there was of 
 wilfulness in his conduct, was the fault of his mother's great 
 indulgence. 
 
 " Look at this dreadful little boy, papa ! " she exclaimed, 
 standing before her husband, her luxuriant hair, dark and 
 shining as a gipsy's, flowing on to her light muslin dress. " See 
 what he has done to poor mamma. Don't you think we must 
 sell him to the old cobbler at Alnwick ? " 
 
 Mr. St. John looked up from his crowded desk, speaking 
 half crossly. The interruption annoyed him. 
 
 "How can you let him pull you about so, Charlotte? 
 George, you want a whipping." 
 
 She sat down, clasping the boy to her heart in an access of 
 love. " Whipping for Georgy ! " she fondly murmured in the 
 child's ear, "No, no : Georgy pull mamma's hair down if he 
 likes." But Honour could have told a tale to prove that she 
 was not always so tolerant. Benja had once pulled her hair 
 down in play — it was just after she came to the Hall — and she 
 had left the marks of her fingers on his face for it. It is true
 
 A^SHADOW OF THE FUTURE. $7 
 
 she seemed sorry afterwards^ and soothed him when he cried : 
 but she did it. 
 
 Letting George sit on her knee, she did up her hair as well 
 as she could. George laughed and chattered, and tried to pull 
 it down again ; altogether there was a great noise. Mr. St. 
 John spoke. 
 
 " I wish you'd take him away, Charlotte : I am very busy." 
 
 " Busy ! But J came to talk to you, George," she answered. 
 
 " AVhat about ? " 
 
 " Something that I want to do — something that I have been 
 thinking of. Here, Georgy, amuse yourself with these, and be 
 quiet," she said, taking up a small plate containing a bunch of 
 grapes, which happened to be on the table, and giving it to 
 the restless, romping child. " Eat them whilst I talk to papa." 
 
 " Won't another time do, Charlotte ? " 
 
 " I shall not keep you a minute. Next week November 
 will come in. And the loth will be — do you remember what 
 the loth will be?" 
 
 " Benja's birthday," said Mr. St. John, speaking without 
 thought, his attention wholly given to the papers before him. 
 
 You should have seen the change in her face — it wore an 
 evil look just then. 
 
 " And George's also ! " 
 
 The tone jarred on Mr. St. John's ear, and he raised his 
 eyes quickly. 
 
 " George's also, of course. What of it, Charlotte ? " 
 
 The angry emotion had raised a storm within her, and her 
 breath was laboured. But she strove for self-control, and 
 pressed her hand to her heart to still it. 
 
 " You can think of Benja, you cannot think of Georgy ! 
 It is ever so." 
 
 "Nay, you are mistaken," said Mr. St. John, warmly. "I 
 think as much of one as I do of the other : I /ove one as much 
 as I do the other. If I answered you shortly, it is because 
 I am busy." 
 
 Mrs. St. John was silent for a few moments, apparently play- 
 ing with the child's pretty curls. ^Vhen she spoke, all temper 
 appeared to have been subdued, and she was cordial again. 
 
 " I want to keep their birthday, George." 
 
 " With all my heart." 
 
 " But to keep it grandly, I mean : something that will be 
 remembered. ^Ve will have an outdoor /(-/^ "
 
 58 ST, MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 ''An outdoor fete!'" was the surprised and involuntary 
 interruption. 
 
 '^ Yes ; why not ? Similar to the one you gave three years 
 ago. Ah, George ! don't you remember it, and what you asked 
 me then ? We have never had one since." 
 
 " But that was in September ; this will be November — too 
 late for that sort of thing." 
 
 " Not too late if this fine weather lasts. It is lovely yet." 
 
 "The chances are that it will not last." 
 
 " It may. At any rate, George, if it does not, we must enter- 
 tain the crowd indoors instead of out. But I have set my heart 
 on keeping this day." 
 
 "Very well : I have not the least objection." 
 
 "And now, George, shall we invite " 
 
 " If you will kindly leave me alone for half-an-hour, Charlotte, 
 I shall have done what I am about, and will talk it over with 
 you as much as you please," he interrupted. " I expect the 
 steward in every minute, and am not ready for him." 
 
 " We'll go then, Georgy, and leave papa alone. Make 
 haste." 
 
 The " make ha,ste " applied to eating the grapes, which 
 Master Georgy was already accomplishing with tolerable 
 speed. Mrs. St. John, her arm round him, held the plate 
 on his little knees ; the other hand was still wandering amidst 
 his hair. A cliarming picture ! The child's generally bright 
 complexion looked very bright to-day ; the fair skin white as 
 snow, the cheeks a lovely rose colour. It might have been 
 taken for paint ; and the thought seemed to strike Mrs. St. 
 John. 
 
 " If he could only sell that," she said to her husband, as she 
 pointed to the bloom ] " how many women there are who would 
 give a fortune for it ! " 
 
 " I would rather see him like Benja, though," was the prompt 
 and prosaic answer. " That rose-red has been found a fatal 
 sign before now in the St. Johns of Alnwick." 
 
 " You have it yourself," said ]Mrs. St. John. 
 
 "Something like it, I believe." 
 
 " Then, how can you say it is fatal ? You — you — don't mean 
 anything, surely, George ? " 
 
 George St. John laughed out merrily ; a reassuring laugh. 
 
 " Not as to him, at least, Charlotte. He is a healthy little 
 fellow — as I hope and believe."
 
 A SHADOW OF THE FUTURE'. 59 
 
 Georgy made an end of the grapes, and, b}' way qI finale, 
 tossed the plate up. Mrs. St. John caught it, so there was no 
 damage done. Putting him down, he ran up to his papa, eager 
 to see whether there was anything else on the table, either to eat 
 or to play with. His mamma took his hand, and was rewarded 
 with a cry and a stamp. 
 
 "You have been writing to Isaac St. John?" she exclaimed, 
 her eyes falling on the letter that lay there. " Do you correspond 
 with him ? " 
 
 "Not often." 
 
 " AVhy have you been writing to him now ? " 
 
 *' Only to ask him a question." 
 
 " Oh ! " she concluded, taking Georgy up by force, who 
 resisted with all his might. " I thought you might have 
 been writing to invite him here, and he would be such a 
 trouble." 
 
 " He wouldn't come, if I did." 
 
 " Is he so very unsightly, George ? " 
 
 "No : not unsightly at all." 
 
 " And the other one — Frederick ? Is he so very beautiful ? " 
 
 George St. John burst into another laugh. 
 
 " Beautiful ! What a term to apply to a man ! But I sup- 
 pose he is what you women would call so. He is good-looking : 
 better-looking, I think, than any one I ever saw. There, that's 
 enough, Charlotte. Put off anything else you have to ask me 
 until by-and-by." 
 
 This/tV^, as projected by Alnwick's mistress, was carried out. 
 It need not have been mentioned at all, but for a misfortune 
 that befel Benja while it was being held. The weather, though 
 growing gradually colder, still retained its fineness ; and when 
 the day rose, the loth of November, it proved to be bright and 
 pleasant. 
 
 Crowds flocked to Alnwick. As it had been on the loth of 
 November, during Mr, St. John's widowhood, the/tV^ ox fetes, so 
 it was now — a gathering to be remembered in the county. The 
 invitations had gone out far and wide ; visitors were staying in 
 the house, as many as it would hold ; day-guests came from all 
 parts, near and distant. It was one of those marked days that 
 never fade from the memory. 
 
 But the guests, as it drew towards the close of the afternoon, 
 might have searched for their host in vain, had they happened 
 to want him. Mr. St. John was then in his own sitting-room
 
 DO ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 (the one where you last saw him), leaning back in an easy- 
 chair, and looking tired to death. A little thing fatigued him 
 now : for there could be no mistake that the weakness he com- 
 plained of was growing upon him. He lay back in the chair 
 in that perfectly still attitude indicative of great weariness; 
 listlessly conscious of the noise outside, the music, the laughter, 
 the gay and joyous sounds; and amidst them might be 
 caught distinctly the shouts and cries of the two boys, Benja 
 and George, who were busiest of the busy that festal day. 
 
 Presently George St. John stretched out his hand, and took 
 a letter from his desk — the answer from Isaac St. John. It had 
 arrived only that morning, and Mr. St. John, engaged with his 
 guests at breakfast, had only glanced at its contents. He opened 
 it now again. 
 
 " Castle Wafer, November <)th. 
 
 " My dear George, 
 
 " You will think I have taken a great deal of time 
 in replying to you, but I wished to give the question mature 
 consideration, and could only snatch brief moments between 
 my sufferings, which are just now very great. 
 
 "I accept the charge. Partly because you were always a 
 favourite of mine (as I believe you know), and I don't like to 
 refuse you ; partly because I assume that I shall never (speak- 
 ing in accordance with probability and human foresight} be 
 called upon to exercise my office : for I hope and trust you 
 have no reason to expect this. I had fully made up my mind 
 never to accept another guardianship : not that I had reason 
 to suppose one was likely to be offered me : the bringing up 
 Frederick has been a great responsibility for one situated as 
 I am. 
 
 ' " However, as you say in this case there would be no personal 
 guardianship required, I dare say I could manage the money 
 matters, and therefore consent to accept it. Hoping at the 
 same time, and assuming, that I shall never be called upon to 
 fulfil it. 
 
 "Why don't you come and see me? I am very lonely: 
 Frederick is only here by fits and starts, once in a summer's 
 day, and gone again ; and Mrs. St. John writes me word that 
 she is prevented coming down this autumn. You can go about 
 at will, and why not come ? So much can scarcely be said of 
 me. I should like to make the acquaintance of your wife and
 
 A SHADOW OF THE FUTURE. 6i 
 
 of my future charges, who, I hope, never will be my charges. 
 You ask about Anne : nothing is decided ; and Frederick holds 
 back mysteriously. 
 
 " Ever truly yours, dear George, 
 
 " Isaac St. John." 
 
 George St. John folded the letter again, and sat with it on his 
 knee. He was beginning to think — with that unmistakable 
 conviction that amounts to a prevision — that his cousin 7C'o///d 
 be called upon to accept the charge. Perhaps at no very dis- 
 tant period. Pym was getting cross and snappish : a sure and 
 certain sign to one who knew him as well as George St. John 
 did, that he thought him ill : had he been improving, the 
 surgeon would have been gay as a lark. But it needed not 
 Pym or any one else to confirm the fact of his increasing illness : 
 the signs were within himself. 
 
 He was glad that Mr. St. John had accepted the charge : 
 though he had felt almost sure that he would do so, for Isaac 
 St. John lived only to do good to others. A man, as personal 
 joint guardian to his children, could not be proposed ; if they 
 were left, as it was only right they should be left, under the 
 gua-rdianship of his wife. There had been moments in this last 
 month or two when, remembering those violent fits of passion, 
 a doubt of her perfect fitness for the office would intrude itself 
 upon him ; but he felt that he could not ignore her claims ; 
 there was not sufficient pretext for separating the mother from 
 the child. 
 
 As he sat, revolving these and many thoughts in his mind, 
 he became conscious that the sounds outside had changed their 
 character. The gay laughter was turning into a murmur of 
 alarm, the joyous voices to hushed cries. He held his breath 
 to listen, and in that moment a wald burst of terror rent the air. 
 With one bound, as it almost seemed, Mr. St. John was out and 
 amongst them. 
 
 The crowd was gathering round the lake, and his heart flew 
 to his children. But he caught sight of his wife standing 
 against a tree, holding George to her side against the folds of 
 her beautiful dress. That she was agitated with some great 
 emotion, there could be no doubt : her breath was laboured, 
 her face white as death. 
 
 "What is the matter? What has happened?" cried Mr. St. 
 John, halting for a moment his fleet footsteps.
 
 62 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " They say — that — Benja's— drowned," she answered, hesita- 
 ting between every word. 
 
 He did not wait to hear the conclusion : he bounded on to 
 the brink of the lake, throwing off his coat as he ran, ready to 
 plunge in after his beloved child. But one had been before 
 him : and the first object Mr. Carleton saw as the crowd 
 parted for him, was the dog Brave, swimming to shore with 
 Benja. 
 
 " Good dog ! Brave 1 Brave ! Come on, then. Brave ! Good 
 old dog ! Save your playfellow ! Save the heir of Alnwick ! " 
 
 All safe. Only on the bank did the good dog loose the 
 clothes from between his firm teeth, and release Benja. Mr. 
 St. John, more emotion on his face than had been seen there 
 since the death of that child's mother, caught the boy with one 
 hand and caressed Brave with the other. 
 
 His wife had not stirred. She stood there, calm, still, as one 
 stunned. Was she frightened ? those who had leisure to glance 
 at her asked it. Had her love for her step-son, her dread at 
 losing him, transformed her into a statue ? 
 
 It was not that she was so much frightened ; it was not that 
 she loved Benja. Perhaps she was as yet unconscious of Avhat 
 feelings the moment had served to arouse ; partially unconscious 
 that the thought which had blanched her face with emotion and 
 wildly stirred the pulses of her beating heart, was one 'fraught 
 with danger : if Benja were drowned, her child would be 
 the heir. 
 
 Voices were calling out that the boy was dead, and Mrs. 
 St. John lifted her face, a sort of haggard, yearning look upon 
 it. But Mr. Carleton, the boy pressed in his warm arms, knew 
 that he was only insensible. He was hastening to the house. 
 Honour, half frightened to death, at his side, and eager 
 sympathizers following in his wake, when he bethought him of 
 his wife. 
 
 "Honour, just run and tell your mistress that he'll be all 
 right soon. She's there ; under the elm-trees." 
 
 " is he dead ? " she asked ere Honour could speak, as the 
 girl went up. 
 
 " Oh no, madam, he's not dead, thank Heaven ! My 
 master has sent me to tell you that he is all right." 
 
 Mrs. St. John did not appear to understand. It seemed to 
 Honour— and the girl was a quick observer — as if her mistress 
 had been so fully persuaded he was dead that her senses were
 
 A SHADOW OF THE FUTURE. 63 
 
 at first sealed to the contrary impression, and could not 
 admit it. 
 
 " Not dead ? " she repeated, mechanically. 
 
 "He is not dead," said Honour. "He is in no danger of 
 dying now." 
 
 For one single moment — for one moment only — a wild sort 
 of glare, of angry disappointment, shot from the eyes of Mrs. 
 St. John. Honour drew back scared, shocked : it had betrayed 
 to the attendant more than she ought to know. 
 
 But do not set down Charlotte St. John as a wicked woman. 
 She was not wicked yet. The feeling — whatever its precise 
 nature — had arisen unbidden : she could not help it ; and when 
 she became conscious of it, she shuddered at it just as much 
 as Honour could have done. But she did not detect its 
 danger. 
 
 The party dispersed. And Mrs. St. John, in a soft muslin 
 wrapper, was watching by the cradle of Benja, who Avas in a 
 sweet sleep now. She had kissed him and cried over him 
 when they first met; and George St. John's heart throbbed 
 with pleasure at these tokens of her aifection for the child. 
 Benja had slipped into the lake himself, and for two or three 
 minutes was not observed ; otherwise there had been no 
 danger. 
 
 The danger, however, was over now, and Mr. Pym had gone 
 home, loudly promising Benja a hatful of pliysic as a punish- 
 ment for his carelessness. Mrs. St. John and the household 
 went to rest at midnight, leaving Honour sitting up with the 
 boy. There was not the least necessity for her sitting up, but 
 she would not hear of his not being watched till morning. 
 The child, in fact, was her idol. 
 
 Presently Mr. St. John came in, and Honour started and 
 rose. She had been half asleep in her chair, and she had 
 thought her master had gone to bed. 
 
 _ He lay with his little face, unusually flushed, on the pillow, 
 his silken hair rather wild, and one arm outside the clothes ; a 
 charming picture, as most children are when asleep. Mr. St. 
 John bent over the boy on the other side the crib, apparendy 
 listening to his breathing ; but Honour thought her master was 
 praying, for his eyes were closed, and she saw his lips moving. 
 
 " We should not have liked to lose him, Honour," he 
 observed with a smile, when he looked up. 
 
 " To lose him ! Oh, sir ! I would rather have died myself."
 
 64 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " It might have been a care less for me to leave, though ! " 
 he resumed in an abstracted tone. " His mother gone, and 
 I gone : the world may be a cold one for Benja." 
 
 "But you are not — you are not fearing for yourself, sir!" 
 exclaimed Honour, quite forgetting, in the shock the words 
 gave her, that it was no business of hers to answer the thoughts 
 of her master. 
 
 " I don't know. Honour. I have fancied of late that I may 
 not be here very long." 
 
 " Heaven grant you may be mistaken, sir ! " was the im- 
 pulsive aspiration of the girl : " for this child's sake ! " 
 
 Her master looked at her, struck by the tone of terror, as 
 much as by the words. " Why for his sake ? Should anything 
 happen to me, Honour, you must all take the greater care of 
 him. Your mistress ; you ; all of you." 
 
 An impulse came over Honour to speak out somewhat 
 of her thoughts ; one of those strange impulses that bear the 
 will with them as a torrent not to be controlled. 
 
 " Sir, for the love of mercy — and may God forgive me for 
 saying it, and may you forgive me ! — if you fear that you will 
 be taken from us, don'^ leave this child in the power of Mrs. 
 St. John ! " 
 
 " Honour ! " 
 
 "I know ; I know, sir ; I am forgetting myself; I am saying 
 what I have no right to say ; but the child is dearer to me than 
 any living thing, and I hope you'll overlook my presumption 
 for liis sake. Leave him in the power of anybody else in the 
 world, but don't leave him to Mrs. St. John." 
 
 " Mrs. St. John is fond of him." 
 
 " No, sir, she is the contrary. She tries to like him, but she 
 can't. And if you were gone, there'd no longer be a motive — 
 as I believe — for her seeming to do so. I think — I think" — 
 and Honour lowered her voice beseechingly — " that she might 
 become cruel to him in time." 
 
 Bold words. George St. John did not check them, as 
 perhaps he ought to have done ; rather, he seemed to take 
 them to him and ponder over their meaning. 
 
 "To any one else in the world, sir !" she resumed, the tears 
 forcing themselves down her cheeks in her earnestness. " To 
 any of your own family — to Mrs. Darling — to whom you 
 will ; but do not, do not leave him in the power of his step- 
 mother ! "
 
 WASTING AWAY. 65 
 
 What injtinct caused Honour Tritton thus to speak ? And 
 what made Mr. St. John quit the room without a word of re- 
 proof, as if he silently bowed to it ? 
 
 CHAPTER VHI. 
 
 WASTING AWAY. 
 
 But though Honour's words certainly aroused Mr. St. John to 
 a sense of precaution, they did not cause him to act upon it. 
 A doubt lay almost in his mind as to whether his wife did, or 
 coidd^ like Benja : it was based upon her unmistakably jealous 
 disposition, and on the blow she had once given Benja when 
 she was as a mad woman : but with her daily conduct before 
 him, her love displayed as much for Benja as for her own child, 
 he could only believe that the boy was safe in her care. Cer- 
 tainly the words of Honour recalled those unpleasant doubts 
 forcibly before him ; but he suffered the impression to wear 
 away again. We all know how time, even if you count it only 
 by days or hours, softens the aspect of things; and before 
 November was out, the master of Alnwick had made his will, 
 leaving both the children under the personal guardianship of 
 his wife. 
 
 And the winter went on, and George St. John grew weaker 
 and weaker. Not very perceptibly so to the eyes about him ; 
 the decline was too gentle for that. In February, instead of 
 going up to London when Parliament met, he resigned his 
 seat, and then people grew sensible of the change in him, and 
 wondered what was wrong with Mr. Carleton St. John. Mr. 
 Pym came up constantly, and was more and more testy at 
 every visit. He sent drugs ; he brought other doctors with 
 him; he met a great physician from the metropolis; but the 
 more he did, the worse seemed to be the effect upon his 
 patient. 
 
 "You'd better give me up for a bad job, Pym, and leave off 
 worrying yourself," Mr. St. John said to him one day as they 
 were strolling down the park together — for Mr. St. John liked 
 to go out with the doctor when he had paid his visits. " I do 
 you no credit." 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. 5
 
 66 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 "It's because you won'' i do it," gruffly retorted the surgeon. 
 " I order you to a warm climate, and you won't go." 
 
 "No; I won't. I am best here. Send me away to those 
 hot places, and I should only die the sooner. Pym, dear old 
 fellow" — and Mr. St. John put his hand into the surgeon's — ■ 
 "you are feeling this for me more than I feel it for myself. I 
 have settled my business affairs ; I have settled — I humbly hope 
 — other affairs of greater moment ; and I can wait my summons 
 tranquilly." 
 
 " Have you made your will ? " asked Mr. Pym, after a pause, 
 which seemed to be chiefly occupied in clearing his throat. 
 
 " No end of weeks ago. The chief thing I had to settle was 
 the guardianship of the children. Of Benja, I may say. George 
 would have naturally fallen to his mother without a will." 
 
 "And you have left him — Benja ?" 
 
 "To my wife, just as I have the other. Mr. St. John, of 
 Castle Wafer, and General Carleton, are the trustees. I thought 
 of my wife's half-brother, Captain Darling, as one of them ; but 
 his regiment will probably be ordered abroad, and he may be 
 away for years." 
 
 They walked on a few steps further in silence, to the spot 
 that Mr. St. John called his turning-place, for it was there he 
 generally quitted the surgeon. As they were shaking hands, 
 Mr. Pym retained his patient's fingers in his, and spoke. 
 
 " Will you forgive an old man for his advice ? He is double 
 your age, and has had twenty times the experience. For 
 acquiring good practical lessons of life, commend me to a 
 doctor." 
 
 "I'll take it," said Mr. St. John, "in anything except 
 quitting Alnwick." 
 
 "Don't leave Benja under your wife's charge." 
 
 " Why not ? " came the question, after a pause of surprise. 
 
 " I have my reasons. For one thing, she is not very strong, 
 and the charge of the two children, with you gone, might be 
 found a heavy task." 
 
 " I think that's nonsense, Pym," quietly replied Mr. St. 
 John. " She has plenty of servants, and at a proper age Benja 
 will go to school. George also. You must have some other 
 
 reason." 
 
 "True. But I am not sure that you would like me to men- 
 tion it." 
 
 " Mention what you will, Pym. Say anything."
 
 WASTING AWAY. 67 
 
 " Has it occurred to you that it is within the range of possi- 
 bility your wife may marry again ? " 
 
 " My widow may. Yes." 
 
 " Then, should this prove the case, and she formed new ties 
 about her, Benja might find himself neglected. George is her 
 own child, secure in her love, whatever betide ; Benja is differ- 
 ent. Have you provided in anyway for the contingency I have 
 mentioned ? " 
 
 " No. I have left my wife personal and resident guardian 
 at Alnwick until Benja shall be twenty-one. At that period she 
 must leave it, or only remain there as Benja's guest. It is right, 
 I believe, that it should be so. And I have a precedent in my 
 father's will." 
 
 " But his widow was your own mother." 
 
 Mr. St. John made no immediate reply. The distinction had 
 probably not occurred to him. 
 
 "Take my advice, George St. John," said the surgeon im- 
 pressively ; " do not leave Benja under the charge of your wife. 
 I would rather not discuss with you the why and the where- 
 fore ; but rely upon it some other plan will be better both for 
 the boy and for Mrs. St. John." 
 
 He went away as he spoke, and George St. John turned 
 slowly back to the Hall. The conversation recalled to his mind 
 with vivid force the almost-forgotten words of Honour; and 
 an uncomfortable feeling of indecision crept into it. 
 
 Still he did not see any feasible way of altering the arrange- 
 ments he had made. When he died, Alnwick Hall would be 
 Benja's, and must be the boy's chief home during his minority; 
 he could not turn his wife out of it, and he could not place any 
 one else in it as Benja's personal guardian. He had no means 
 of providing a suitable residence for his widow if she left the 
 Hall : in fact, it was only as the heir's guardian that he could 
 at all adequately provide for her. Neither, it must be con- 
 fessed, did Mr. St. John himself see any great necessity for 
 separating them : but he was a man amenable to counsel, open 
 to advice, and the opinion of two friends (surely both may be 
 called so !) so attached to him as Mr. Pym and Honour, bore 
 weight with him. It had not been George St. John had he 
 ignored it. 
 
 *' May God help me to do right ! " he murmured, as he 
 entered the house. 
 
 He dwelt much upon it during the remainder of the day ;
 
 68 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 he lay awake part of the night : and only when he came to a 
 decision did he get to sleep. Early the next morning he rang 
 for his servant ; and at eight o'clock the pony-carriage con- 
 veyed him to the railway station at Alnwick to take the train. 
 As the market people looked at him, passing them betimes in 
 the fresh February morning, at the bright colour in his face, the 
 wavy brown hair stirred by the gentle breeze, they said to them- 
 selves, how well Mr. Carleton St. John was looking, though 
 thin. 
 
 He was going over to Castle Wafer. An hour and a-quarter's 
 journey brought him to a certain town ; there he waited twenty 
 minutes, and took another train. Rather more than another 
 hour and a-quarter of very quick travelling, for this last was an 
 express, conveyed him to Lexington, and thence he took a fly 
 to Castle Wafer. 
 
 It was one of the most charming houses ever seen, nestling 
 in lovely grounds, amidst rising trees of many species. A 
 modern house, built by its present owner, Isaac St. John, who 
 possessed a rare taste for the beautiful, and had made it ex- 
 quisite. That house was his hobby in life ; his care was his 
 half-brother, Frederick St. John. The estate of Castle Wafer 
 was the entailed inheritance of these St. Johns ; and Frederick 
 was heir presumptive : the positive heir, said the world ; for 
 it was beyond the range of probability that its present owner 
 would ever marry. 
 
 They were second-cousins to the St. Johns of Alnwick, 
 and were next in succession. Of great wealth themselves, 
 far more so than was George St. John, and of more note in the 
 world, they were yet below him in succession to what might be 
 called the original family property. That was not Alnwick. 
 An old baronet of eighty-one, Sir Thomas St. John, held it ; 
 he was childless, and therefore it would come at his death to 
 George St. John, and to George St. John's sons after him. 
 Had he, George St. John, also been childless, the whole, in- 
 cluding the title, including Alnwick, would lapse to Isaac St. 
 John. 
 
 George St. John had nearly a two-mile drive. He noted the 
 familiar points on the road and in the fine landscape, as they 
 stood out in the clear but not very bright February day. The 
 sprinkling of cottages near Castle Wafer ; the solitary public- 
 house, called the Barley Mow, with its swinging sign-board ; 
 and the old-fashioned red-brick house, Lexington Rectory,
 
 WASTING AWAY. 69 
 
 which the wiseacres of other days had built nearly two miles 
 from its church and Lexington proper. It stood close to the 
 grounds of Castle Wafer ; was the only house of any social 
 standing very near to it ; and as George St. John glanced at its 
 windows as he passed, he remembered that its present possessor 
 had received his title to orders from a church in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Alnwick, of which his father was patron ; but he 
 had been a very, very little boy at the time. The house 
 looked empty now ; its windows were nearly all closed : and 
 he supposed its incumbent. Dr. Beauclerc, Rector of Lexing- 
 ton and Dean of Westerbury, was away at his deanery. 
 
 " Mr. St. John is at home ? " he asked, as the woman came 
 out to throw back the lodge gates. 
 
 "Oh yes, sir." And indeed George St. John had little need 
 to ask, for Mr. St. John rarely, very rarely, was away from 
 Castle Wafer. 
 
 A few minutes' turning and winding, and then the front of 
 the house burst upon George St. John's view, and he was close 
 upon it. The sun broke out at the moment, and he thought 
 he had never before seen any place so beautiful ; he always 
 did think so, whenever he thus came upon Castle Wafer. The 
 glistening white front, long rather than high, with its elabora- 
 tion of ornament ; the green terraces, covered with their 
 parterres of flowers, already in bloom, and stretching beyond 
 to the less open grounds ; the low French windows, open to 
 the breeze — never did any dwelling impart so cheerful, so 
 attractive a look as did Castle Wafer. To a stranger, having 
 no idea of the sort of house he was going to see, perhaps 
 surprise would be the first feeling ; for the place was as unlike 
 a castle as any place could be. Isaac St. John said laughingly 
 sometimes that he ought to change its appellation. There 
 might have been a castle on the lands in the old feudal 
 ages, but no trace remained of it : and the house, which 
 had been pulled down to give place to this fairy edifice, had 
 looked like a companion to the Rectory — red, gaunt, and 
 gloomy. 
 
 As the hall-door was thrown open, and the bright colours 
 fell on its mosaic pavement from the stained-glass windows, 
 gladdening the eye of George St. John, a tall, portly man, 
 rather solemn and very respectable, not to say gentlemanly, 
 was crossing it, and turned his head to see who the visitor 
 might be. Mr. St. John at once stepped past the footman and
 
 70 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 greeted him. It was Mr. Brumm, Castle Wafer's chief and 
 most respected servant ; the many years' personal attendant, 
 and in some respects a confidential one, of its master. George 
 St. John held out his hand, as affable men will do by these 
 valued servants, after years of absence. 
 
 " How are you, Brumm ? I see I have taken you by 
 surprise." 
 
 " You have indeed, sir," said Mr. Brumm, in the slow manner 
 natural to him. " Not more so, I am sure, sir, than you will take 
 my master. It was only this morning that he was mentioning 
 your name." 
 
 " How is he now ? " 
 
 " Better, sir, than he has been. But he has suffered much of 
 late." 
 
 Mr. Brumm was leading the way into an inner hall, one light 
 and beautiful as the first, with the same soft colours thrown from 
 its several windows. Opening a door here, he looked in and 
 spoke. 
 
 "A visitor, sir — Mr. Carleton St. John." 
 
 By a bright fire in this light and charming room — and if you 
 object to the reiteration of the term, I can only plead in excuse 
 that everything was light and charming at Castle Vv'afer — with 
 its fev/ fine paintings, its glittering mirrors, its luxuriant chairs 
 and sofas, its scattered books, and its fine harmonium, sat a 
 deformed gentleman. Not any hideous phase of deformity 
 that repels the eye, but simply with a hump upon his back : a 
 small hump, the result of an accident in infancy. He had 
 a pale, wan face, with the sharp chin usually accompanying 
 these cases ; a flice that insensibly attracted you by its look of 
 suffering, and the thoughtful earnestness of its bright, clear, 
 well-opened hazel eyes. Of nearly middle height, that hump 
 was the only unsightly point about him ; but he was a man of 
 suffering; and he lived chiefly alone, he and his pain. His 
 hair was dark, silken, rather scanty ; but not a thread of 
 silver could be seen in it, though he was close on his fiftieth 
 year. 
 
 Laying down the book he was reading, Isaac St. John rose 
 at the mention of the name ; and stepped forward in the quiet, 
 undemonstrative way characteristic of him, a glad smile lighting 
 up his face. 
 
 " George ! how pleased I am to see you ! So you have 
 thought of me at last? "
 
 WASTING AWAY. 71 
 
 " I was half ashamed to come, Mr. St. John, remembering 
 that it is five years since I came before. But I have met Mrs. 
 St. John repeatedly in London, and sometimes Frederick ; so 
 that I have, as it were, seen you at second-hand. I have not 
 been well, too." 
 
 Suitable, perhaps, to the difference in their ages, it might be 
 observed that while the elder man called the younger " George," 
 he himself was addressed as "Mr. St. John." But Mr. St. 
 John had been almost grown up when George was a baby, and 
 could remember having nursed him. 
 
 " You do not look well, George," he said, scanning the almost 
 transparent face before him. " And — are you taller ? You 
 look so." 
 
 " That's because I'm thinner. See ! " — opening his coat — 
 " I'm nothing but a skeleton." 
 
 "What is wrong?" 
 
 " I can't tell you. I grow thinner and thinner and weaker 
 and weaker, and that's about all I know. I may pick up as 
 spring comes on, and get right again ; but — it may be the other 
 way." 
 
 Isaac St. John did not answer. An unpleasant reminiscence 
 of how this young man's father had wasted away eight-and- 
 twenty years ago kept him silent. 
 
 " What will you take, George? Have you come to stay with 
 me ? " 
 
 " I have come to stay with you two hours : I must be home 
 again by nightfall if I can. And I won't take anything until 
 my business with you is over ; for I confess it is my own selfish 
 affairs that have brought me here. Let me speak to you first." 
 
 "As you will. I am ready." 
 
 " Ever ready, ever willing to help us all ! " returned George 
 St. John, warm gratitude in his tone. "It is about the 
 guardianship that I wish to speak. I thank you for accept- 
 ing it." 
 
 Isaac smiled. " I did not see that I could do otherwise for 
 
 i> 
 
 you. 
 
 " Say for my children. Well, listen to me. I have left my 
 wife personal guardian to my children. She will reside at the 
 Hall until Benja is of age, and they with her, subject of course 
 to their school and college intervals. This is absolute with 
 regard to the younger, but in regard to the elder I wish it to 
 be dependent upon your discretion."
 
 72 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Upon my discretion ? " 
 
 George St. John had his hands upon his knees, leaning for- 
 forward in his great earnestness ; he did not appear to notice 
 the interruption. 
 
 " I wish you (when I shall be gone, and the boys have only 
 their mother) to take means of ascertaining from time to time 
 that Benja is happy under his step-mcther's care, and that she 
 is doing her part by him in kindness. Should you find occasion 
 to doubt this, or to think from any other cause that he would 
 be better elsewhere, remove him from her, and place him with 
 any one you may consider suitable. I dare not say take him 
 yourself : children are noisy, and your health is imperfect ; but 
 place him where you can be sure that he will be well done by. 
 Will you undertake this, Mr. St. John ? " 
 
 " Why do you ask this ? " was the reply of Isaac St. John. 
 " Is it a new thought — a sudden thought ? " 
 
 " It is a new thought, imparted to me chiefly through a 
 conversation I had yesterday with Pym, our surgeon and old 
 friend. He does not think it well that Benja should be left 
 under the absolute control of Mrs. St. John, as he is not her 
 own child. He said, for one thing, that she might marry 
 again, and Benja would be as it were isolated amidst new ties ; 
 but when I pressed him for other reasons — for I am sure he 
 jiad others — he would not give them ; preferred not to discuss 
 it, he said. He was — I could see that — for having the boy 
 entirely away from her, but that is not to be thought of. I 
 reflected a good deal on what he said, and have come to the 
 conclusion that it may be as well there should be some clause 
 inserted in the will that shall take absolute power from her, 
 and hence I come to you." 
 
 "Your wife is kind to the boy?" asked Mr. St. John. 
 " Pardon me the question, George." 
 
 " Very much so. When George was born, she showed some 
 jealousy of the oldest boy, but all that has passed away. 
 Benja was nearly drowned last November, and she Avas quite 
 hysterical afterwards, crying and sobbing over him like a child. 
 The nurse, a most faithful woman, thinks, I know, with Pym, 
 but that's nothing." 
 
 "You wish me, in the event of the children being left father- 
 less, to ascertain whether the elder is well done by at the Hall, 
 and is happy there. If not, I am to remove him ? This is 
 what you ask, as I understand it ? "
 
 WASTING AWAY, 73 
 
 " Precisely so. Should you, in your judgment, deem that 
 Benja would be better elsewhere, take him away. I shall 
 endow you with full power." 
 
 " But how am I to ascertain that ? ' 
 
 " In any way you please. Use any means that may suggest 
 themselves. Go over and see for yourself, or send some suit- 
 able substitute, or question Honour— — " 
 
 " Who is Honour ? " 
 _ " Benja's nurse. She took to him when my poor Caroline 
 died. My present wife does not seem strong ; at least she has 
 had one or two serious illnesses lately ; and Pym says the care 
 of the two boys is more than I ought to put upon her. Perhaps 
 it would be." 
 
 " Why not at once leave Benja under another guardian- 
 ship ? " 
 
 "I should not like to do so. The world would regard it as 
 a slight, a tacit want of confidence in my wife : and besides, in 
 that case I should be divided as to whether to leave the Hall 
 as a present residence to her or to Benja. I — mark me, Mr. 
 St. John — I place full reliance upon my wife ; I believe she 
 will do her duty by Benja, and make him happy ; and in that 
 case there is no harm done. I am only providing for a con- 
 tingency." 
 
 " I see. Well, I accept the charge, George, though it might 
 be well that you should entrust it to a more active man." 
 
 " No, no ; you and you only." 
 
 They continued talking together for the brief space George 
 St. John had allotted for his stay. Little more was said on the 
 one subject, for George quitted it somewhat abruptly, and they 
 had other topics in common ; family matters, news on either 
 side, as is the case when relatives meet after a prolonged 
 separation. At the appointed time he was driven back to 
 Lexington in Mr. St. John's carriage, took the return train, and 
 reached xMnwick about six in the evening. 
 
 _ His wife had sent the close carriage for him, fearing the 
 night ain George St. John directed the coachman to drive 
 round by Mr. Drake, the lawyer's ; and when that gentleman 
 came out to him he asked him to step up to the Hall on the 
 morrow, on a little matter of business relative to an alteration 
 in his recently-made will. 
 
 But Mr. St. John of Castle Wafer, pondering on these matters 
 after his relative's departure, remained puzzled, and could by
 
 74 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 no means arrive at a satisfactory conclusion as to whether 
 there was danger that Mrs. Carleton St. John might be cruel 
 to Benja, after the fashion of the vindictive uncle of the 
 "Babes in the Wood," or whether it was feared that she would 
 kill him with kindness. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 CHANGES .\T ALNWICK. 
 
 On a charming summer day in that favourite room whose 
 windows overlooked the broad lands of Alnwick, sat Mrs. 
 Carleton St. John in widow's weeds. Opposite to her, in 
 mourning also, her travelling shawl unpinned and slipping 
 from her slim, falling shoulders, her bonnet dusty, was Mrs. 
 Darling, not five minutes arrived. 
 
 Changes had come to Alnwick, as these signs betrayed. Its 
 master, so much loved and respected during life, was no more. 
 In the month of May the deceitful, as poets have it, the crisis 
 came for George Carleton St. John, and the Hall passed to 
 another owner — the little boy too young to be conscious of 
 his full loss, and whose chief idea connected with it was the 
 black attire with which officious attendants hastened to invest 
 him. 
 
 Death at the last was sudden, and Mrs. St. John was alone 
 when it came. Her mother, Mrs. Darling, had gone abroad, 
 and beyond a very brief note, just telling her of the event, 
 Mrs. Darling received no direct news from her. She wrote 
 letter after letter, for it was not convenient to return home 
 immediately ; but all the replies — when she received any — 
 came from Prance. And Prance, who was in a degree in the 
 confidence of Mrs. Darling, ventured to intimate that her 
 .mistress was " sulking," and much annoyed by the will. 
 
 The last item of intelligence stirred all the curiosity pos- 
 sessed by Mrs. Darling. It also troubled her. She was aware 
 that George St. John had little actual property to bequeath to 
 his wife — and George St. John's own private opinion had been 
 that Mrs. Darling's opposition to his marriage with her daughter 
 arose from that sole fact — but there were ways and means of 
 remedying this ; and now Mrs. Darling supposed they had not
 
 CHANGES AT ALNWICK. 75 
 
 been taken. As soon as she was able, after June came in, she 
 made arrangements for returning to England, and hastened 
 down to Alnwick Hall. 
 
 But for the escutcheon on the outer walls, and the badge of 
 widowhood worn by her daughter, Mrs. Darling might have 
 thought things were as they had been — that no change had 
 occurred. The windows were open, the sun was shining, the 
 park was green and flourishing : even Charlotte was not 
 changed. And Mrs. Darling scanned her with a critical eye. 
 
 " My dear, you are looking better than I hoped for." 
 
 " I am pretty well, mamma. I wish Prance would come in 
 with Georgy ! " she continued fretfully. " I want you to see 
 him, he is so grown ! " 
 
 " Dear little fellow ! I was so sorry that I could not come 
 over at the time, Charlotte, but " 
 
 " It did not matter," interrupted Mrs. St. John, speaking 
 quickly. "Indeed I think I was best alone. You know, 
 mamma" — turning her deep eyes full upon her mother — "I 
 was always given to being independent. How is Rose ? " 
 
 "Oh, dear!" returned Mrs. Darling, with a groan, as if 
 recalled to some very annoying subject. " Don't talk of 
 Rose." 
 
 A half smile crossed the young widow's lips. " Has she 
 been doing anything very dreadful ? " 
 
 " No : but she is so rebellious." 
 
 "Rebellious!" 
 
 " At being kept at school. Mary Anne and Margaret fully 
 expected she would break bounds and conceal herself on board 
 the boat. We had sighted Folkestone before they felt any sort 
 of assurance that she was not there." 
 
 " Did Mary Anne and Margaret come over with you ? " 
 
 •' Yes ; I left them in London. Frank is expected." 
 
 " I think Frank might come down to see me ! " said Mrs. St. 
 John, haughtily. 
 
 " My dear, I am sure he will. But he cannot always get 
 leave when he would." 
 
 There was a pause. Charlotte, cool, haughty, reserved, as 
 she had ever been, even to her mother, turned to the window 
 again, looking out for her little son. Mrs. Darling was burning 
 to ask various particulars of things she wanted to know, but 
 did not just now see her opportunity. She rose from Jier 
 chair.
 
 76 ST, MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " I think I will go, Charlotte, and take off my travelling things. 
 I am as dusty as I can be." 
 
 " Do so, mamma. Your old room. Prance will not be long." 
 
 Prance was entering the house even then : she had brought 
 Georgy in the back way. There was a boisterous meeting ; 
 Mrs. St. John coming out to join in it. Georgy chattered, and 
 shook his fair curls from his pink cheeks, and was altogether 
 lovely. Mrs. Darling did not wonder at the faint cry of pain — 
 that intense love, whose expression amounts to pam — with 
 which his mother caught him to her heart. 
 
 " Where is Benja ? " asked Mrs. Darling of Prance. 
 
 Oh, Master St. John would be coming in sometime, Prance 
 supposed. Honour had begun with her insolence, as usual, so 
 they parted company. And Mrs. Darling, as if she would 
 ignore the words, made her way hastily towards the staircase, 
 Prance following in attendance. 
 
 Mrs. Darling scarcely gave the woman time to close the 
 chamber-door before she began to question her eagerly. Re- 
 member that Prance was, so far as Mrs. Darling was concerned, 
 a confidential servant, and she imparted all she knew. Mrs. 
 St. John was to remain at the Hall as Master St. John's 
 guardian, with four thousand a-year. 
 
 "I heard the will read," said Prance. "Old Drake the 
 lawyer came to us after they returned from the funeral, and 
 said we were wanted in the large drawing-room. Mrs. St. John 
 was there in her new mourning and her widow's cap ; and she 
 looked very cross and haughty as we filed in. The gentlemen 
 who had gone to the funeral were there, and Dr. Graves, and 
 Mr. Pym. I had the little one, and Honour came in with 
 Master St. John " 
 
 "Why do you call him Master St. John? — he was always 
 called Master Benja," interrupted Mrs. Darling. 
 
 " He has been called so since that same time, ma'am," was 
 the woman's answer. " A gruff old gentleman who was one of 
 the mourners, upright and stiff as a backboard and yellow as 
 gold— it w^as General Carleton, I believe — heard one of us call 
 the boy Master Benja, and he spoke up very severely, saying 
 he was not Master Benja, but Master St. John, and must be 
 nothing else to us until he should be Sir Benjamin. The 
 servants were quite taken to, and have called him Master St. 
 John ever since." 
 "Well, go on." 
 
 &
 
 CHANGES AT ALNWICK. 77 
 
 " We found we had been called in to hear the will read. I 
 did not understand it altogether ; but I am quite certain that 
 Mrs. St. John is to reside at the Hall and to be paid four 
 thousand a-year as the heir's guardian. There was something 
 I was unable to catch, through Master Georgy's being trouble- 
 some at the moment, about the four thousand being reduced to 
 two if Master St. John went away. And, on the other hand, it 
 is to be increased by two, whenever he comes into the title and 
 the other estates. Which will make six thousand a-year." 
 
 " Then what did you mean, Prance, by sending me word that 
 your mistress was annoyed at the terms of the will? Four 
 thousand a-year now, and six in prospective ! She cannot find 
 fault with that. It is munificent." 
 
 "You may depend upon it, ma'am, that §he is so," was the 
 unhesitating reply of Prance. " She is very much annoyed at 
 it, and she has shown it in her manner. It is some clause in 
 the will that vexes her. That precious Honour " 
 
 ''Stay, Prance," interrupted Mrs. Darling, "How often 
 have I warned you not to encourage this ill-feeling against 
 Honour ! " 
 
 " It's Honour's fault," promptly answered Prance. 
 
 " It is the fault of both of you," returned Mrs. Darling ; " of 
 the one as much as the other. It is a strange thing you cannot 
 be at peace together ! You will arouse jealousy between the 
 two children next ! " 
 
 " It never comes to open quarrelling between us," rejoined 
 Prance. "But she's uncommonly aggravating." 
 
 "Be quiet, Prance ! I desire once for all that there may be 
 more pleasantness between you. It is a scandal that the two 
 upper maids of the Hall should be ever at variance, and it's 
 a thoroughly bad example for the children ; and it's — you kiwio 
 it's not well for your mistress. ]\Irs. St. John requires peace, 
 not " 
 
 Prance uttered an exclamation : it caused Mrs. Darling, 
 who was looking into a bandbox at the time, to turn sharply. 
 Mrs. St. John was standing there, behind the bed-curtains — 
 to the startled lady's intense dismay. How much had she 
 heard ? 
 
 " Charlotte, my dear, I did not know you were there. I was 
 just giving Prance a lecture upon this ill-feeling that seems 
 always to be going on between her and Honour. Have you 
 come to stay with me, child, whilst I unpack ? " added Mrs.
 
 78 ST. MARTIN'S EVE, 
 
 Darling, seeing that her daughter was seating herself com- 
 fortably in an easy-chair. " Then, Prance, I think you may go 
 now." 
 
 But while she so spoke, Mrs. Darling was tormenting her- 
 self, as much as one of her easy disposition can do so, as to 
 whether she had caught a word of her conversation with Prance 
 — that part of it relating to money,. There had been some 
 noise in the room from the opening of drawers and moving of 
 boxes, which must have prevented their hearing her come in. 
 "I'll speak of it," thought Mrs. Darling. "It's better to take 
 the bull by the horns and make the best of it, when one does 
 get into these dilemmas." 
 
 She stole a glance at her daughter, while busily intent to all 
 appearance in straightening the trimmings of a bonnet she had 
 just taken out of a bandbox. Mrs. St. John looked cold and 
 stern. Had she heard anything ? 
 
 " Charlotte, my dear, I am so very anxious about you : as to 
 how things are Jeft, and all that. I dropped a remark to poor 
 Prance, but she seems to think it is all right ; that you are left 
 well-off and remain here. These simple servants can't know 
 much, of course. I am glad your husband made a just and 
 proper will." 
 
 " He made an infamous will," cried the young widow, her 
 cheeks flaming. 
 
 The words completely took Mrs. Darling aback, and she 
 forgot to enlarge on the opinion she had just expressed of poor, 
 simple Prance's imperfect knowledge. " An infamous will, 
 Charlotte!" she exclaimed, "when you have the Hall and four 
 thousand a-year." 
 
 "It is infamous. I am left dependent upon the heir." 
 
 " The heir ! Do you mean Benja? " 
 
 " There's no other heir but he. Why did George leave me 
 dependent upon him ? " 
 
 "I don't quite understand you, ray dear. In what way are 
 you dependent upon Benja ? " 
 
 " The four thousand a-year is paid to me as his guardian 
 only, — as his guardian and Georgy's. I only remain at the 
 Hall as Benja's guardian. It's all on sufferance." 
 
 " But, my dear, your husband had it not in his power to leave 
 you comfortably off in any other manner. All the settlement 
 he could make on you at your marriage — I really don't think it 
 will amount to more than six hundred a-year — he did make.
 
 CHANGES AT ALNWICK. 79 
 
 This, of course, is yours in addition ; and it will be your child's 
 after you." 
 
 "Think of the contrast," was the rejoinder; and Mrs. St. 
 John's bosom heaved ominously, as if the wrong were almost 
 too great to bear. " The one with his thousands upon thousands, 
 his title, his state, everything that's high and mighty ; the other, 
 with his few poor hundreds and his obscurity." 
 
 "But, my dear Charlotte, there was no help for this. Benja 
 was born to it, and Mr. Carleton could no more alter it than 
 you could." 
 
 "It is not the less unjust." 
 
 " Unjust is not the right word. The law of entail may not 
 be an equitable law, but Englishmen live under it, and must 
 obey it. You should not blame your husband for this." 
 
 " I do not blame him for it." 
 
 "You blame his will, which is the same thing." 
 
 Mrs. St. John was leaning back, the broad lappets of her 
 cap thrown from her face ; her elbows rested on the arms of 
 the chair, and she pressed the tips of her fingers nervously 
 together. The slight storm had passed outwardly, and all her 
 habitual coldness of manner had returned to her. 
 
 " Why did he add that codicil to it ? " 
 
 " Was there a codicil } What was it ? But I don't know 
 what the will itself was, Charlotte. " 
 
 " He had left the children under my exclusive guardianship. 
 They were to reside at the Hall here with me, subject to their 
 absences for education, and he willed that a sum of four 
 thousand a-year should be paid to me." 
 
 "Well?" said Mrs. Darling, for she had stopped. 
 
 "That was in the will. But the codicil altered this, and 
 Benja's residence with me is subject to the pleasure of Mr. 
 Isaac St. John. He has it in his power to remove Benja from 
 me if he sees fitting ; and if Benja is so removed, two thousand 
 of the four are to be withdrawn, and my allowance reduced 
 thereby one half. Why did George do this ? Why did he do 
 it secretly, and never say a word to me about it ? " 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know," said Mrs. Darling, who was revolv- 
 ing the news in her mind. " Benja to be removed from you at 
 the pleasure of Isaac St. John ? But is he not a helpless 
 invalid ? " 
 
 " Physically he may be next door to it, but he is all powerful 
 as to Benja. This codicil was dated the day subsequent to a
 
 8o ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 visit George paid Castle Wafer at the close of winter, a long 
 time after the will was mad-e. Isaac St. John must have put 
 him up to it that day. I will pay him out, if I live." 
 
 " Well, I can't tell why he should have done it," cried Mrs. 
 Darling, who felt altogether puzzled. ^'' He does not want the 
 two thousand a-year; he is rich and an invalid. Did you 
 question him of his motives, Charlotte? I should have 
 done so." 
 
 " Question whom ? — Isaac St. John ? I have never seen 
 him." 
 
 " Did he not come to the funeral ? " 
 
 " No ; he was too ill, they said. His brother came — hand- 
 some Fred. Mamma, I hate Isaac St. John." 
 
 " Hush, my dear. It is more than likely that he will never 
 interfere with you. I have always heard him spoken of as one 
 of the most just and honourable men breathing." 
 
 " I don't like it to have been done. I don't like the world 
 to know that George could put so great a slight upon me. It 
 is known everywhere. The servants know it. He desired that 
 they should be present while the will was read. Did you ever 
 hear of such a thing ? " 
 
 ** Your husband desired it ? " 
 
 " He did ; at least, Mr. Drake says so. When they were 
 about to read the will, and I had come down into the drawing- 
 room before them all, Mr. Drake said to me, ' I am going to 
 call in the servants, with your permission ; Mr. Carleton St. 
 John desired me to do so.' I objected, but it was of no use ; 
 Mr. Drake appeared not to hear me ; and I could not make a 
 fuss at a moment like that. But now, mamma, don't you see 
 the drift of all this ? " 
 
 " N — o," said Mrs. Darling, gathering no idea of Charlotte's 
 meaning. 
 
 " I do," said Charlotte, the keen look sometimes seen in them 
 gleaming from her unfathomable eyes. " That will was read 
 out to the servants on purpose that they might know they have 
 it in their power to carry tales to Isaac St. John. I hate him ! 
 I hate him ! But for him, I am sure my husband would have 
 entrusted me absolutely with Benja. Who is so fitting to bring 
 him up as I?" 
 
 "And I think you will bring him up, Charlotte. I don't 
 understand all this that you are telling me; but I feel little 
 doubt Isaac St. John will be all that is courteous and kind.
 
 CHANGES AT ALNWICK. 8l 
 
 Whilst you do your part by Benja, there can be no plea for 
 removing him. You will do it? " 
 
 " I shall do it, certainly ; " and Mrs. St. John fully meant 
 what she said ; " I shall make no distinction between the boys. 
 If Benja needs correcting, I shall correct him. If Georgy needs 
 correcting, I shall correct ///;//. The thing's easy enough, and 
 simple enough ; and there was not the least need for inter- 
 fering with me. What I dislike most, is George's having kept 
 it from me." 
 
 " I dare say he did not think to mention it to you," said 
 Mrs. Darling, soothmgly ; and it was notable that she Avas in 
 the habit of smoothing things to her daughter always, as though 
 she were afraid of her. "And you are quite right, my dear, 
 not to make any difference between the children; your husband 
 did not." 
 
 "Not outwardly, or in a general way. In his heart, though, 
 he loved the one and not the other; and I love the other and 
 not the one. Oh, Georgy ! Georgy ! if you were only the 
 heir ! " 
 
 " That's an unprofitable thought, Charlotte. Don't indulge 
 it. Benja was the first-born." 
 
 " How can I help indulging it ? Georgy is my first-born, and 
 it seems as a wrong done him — done to us both." 
 
 " My dear, w^iere's the use of this ? You married George 
 Carlelon St. John with your eyes open, in defiance of me. It 
 is too late to repent now." 
 
 " I don't repent. I would marry him again to-morrow, though 
 he had two heirs instead of one. But I can't help — I can't 
 help " 
 
 " What can't you help ? " 
 
 " Never mind. The position is unalterable, and it is useless 
 to dwell upon it. Mamma, I shall never speak of this again. 
 If you want any other particulars of the will, you can get them 
 from old Drake. Tell me now all about Rose and her rebel- 
 lion. I have often thought I should like her to live here when 
 she leaves school." 
 
 Why, Mrs. Darling could not have told ; but she felt the 
 greatest relief when Charlotte thus quitted the subject. It 
 was next to impossible that any child could have been born 
 with a disposition so jealous as had Charlotte Norris ; and Mrs. 
 Darling had been pleased, but for curtailing her income, that 
 Benja should be removed from her. She had no fear that 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. 6
 
 82 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Charlotte would be unkind to him ; systematically unkind she 
 believed Charlotte would not be to any one ; but, so long as 
 the boy was with her, he must and would keep alive the 
 jealousy she felt on Georgy's account. Two thousand a-year, 
 however, in Mrs. Darling's estimation, was — two thousand 
 a-year. 
 
 Willingly she turned to the topic named by Charlotte — her 
 youngest, her troublesome, but most lovable daughter. And it 
 is quite time, my reader, that you made her acquaintance also. 
 To do which it will be necessary to cross the water. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MISS ROSE DARLING. 
 
 You all know that crowded seaport town on the other side the 
 water — Belport-on-the-Sea ; and are therefore aware that its 
 educational establishments, good, bad, and indifferent, are 
 -numerous. But I must ask you not to confound the one you 
 are about to enter, Madame de Nino's, with any of those others, 
 no matter what their merits may be. The small, select, and 
 most costly establishment of Madame de Nino was of the very 
 highest standing ; it was intended solely for the reception of 
 gentlemen's daughters — was really confined to them ; and no 
 pupil could be admitted to it without an undeniable introduc- 
 tion. It was perhaps the only French school to which anxious 
 parents could confide a daughter free from doubt on the score 
 of her associations : whatever her fellow-pupils might be in 
 mind and manners, they were sure to be of gentle birth. 
 
 On that very same day that took Mrs. Darling down to 
 Alnwick Hall on the visit to her widowed daughter, Madame 
 de Nino's pupils were gathered in the large schoolroom. Class 
 was over for the day, and the girls were tired enough. They 
 hated Fridays. There was no dancing, no drawing, no walking; 
 nothing but hard unbroken learning, writing, and practising. 
 
 Look at this class of elder girls, their ages varying from six- 
 teen to twenty, sitting on a bench at the first-class table. Those 
 in the middle sit very back, their spines crooked into a bow, 
 those beyond them on either side sit rather forward, and the 
 two end girls are turned, each sideways, an elbow on the desk ;
 
 MISS ROSE DARLING. 83 
 
 so that they form a semicircle. They are gossiping away in 
 English, which is agains', the rules ; but the teachers are also 
 fatigued with the long and hot day, and do not pay attention. 
 The studying for prizes had begun, and during that period the 
 work was greatly augmented, both of pupils and teachers. 
 
 Look well at the three middle girls. We shall have little to 
 do with the others, but a great deal with them. And they are 
 noticeable besides, for two of them are beautiful, but so unlike 
 in their beauty. The one is a very Hebe, with laughing blue 
 eyes, brilliant complexion, and a shower of golden curls ; and 
 she is Mrs. Darling's youngest daughter. Rose. The other is 
 Adeline de Castella, a name and face fit for a romance in 
 history. She is graceful, charming, with dark-brown eyes and 
 hair, and more exquisite features than were ever carved in 
 marble. The third is Mary Carr, quiet and ladylike, whose 
 good sense served to keep the wildness of INIiss -Rose Darling 
 somewhat in check. For Rose was one of the wildest girls 
 that had ever kept alive Madame de Nino's staid and most 
 respectable school ; wild, wilful, clever, careless ; and vain as a 
 peacock. 
 
 Had Rose been of a more sedate disposition, less given to 
 random ways, Mrs. Darling might not have kept her at school 
 so long, for Rose was eighteen. She was dreadfully rebellious 
 over it, and perhaps the judiciousness of the measure, as a 
 restriction, may be questioned. Mrs. Darling, by way of sooth- 
 ing the pill, allowed Rose to visit much ; and when the girls 
 came to this age Madame de Nino acquiesced in the parents' 
 wishes, but Rose went out more than any previous pupil had 
 ever been known to do. She had many friends sojourning in 
 the town, and was courted on her own account, being exces- 
 sively liked by every one. 
 
 Always in scrapes of one sort or another, or getting out of 
 them, was she : and she had her own way in the school, and 
 would have it. 
 
 One of Miss Rose Darling's propensities was to be con- 
 tinually falling in love. Almost every time she went out, she 
 would favour the envious girls, on her return, with a description 
 of some fresh cavalier who had laid siege to her heart ; for half 
 her pleasure in the thing lay in these boasts to her companions. 
 The last idea of the kind had prevailed longer than usual. 
 A gentleman, whom she had only seen at church or in their 
 walks, was the new gallant. Rose did not know his name, but
 
 84 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 he was very handsome, and she raved of him. The school 
 called him her fiatice ; not in the least to Rose's displeasure. 
 On this evening, as you look at them, Rose is in a state of 
 semi-explosion, because one of the other girls, Miss CaroHne 
 Davis, who had been fetched out that evening by her friends, 
 was now telhng Rose that she had seen this gentleman as she 
 was being conducted back to Madame de Nino's. 
 
 "That comes of my being kept at school. Mamma ought 
 to be punished. You be quiet, Mary Carr ! I shall talk against 
 my mother if I like. Where did you see him. Carry Davis?" 
 
 " In the Grand' Rue. He was strolling up it. My aunt 
 bowed to him." 
 
 " I know he was watching for me ! These horrid Friday 
 evenings ! I wish the school could take scarlet fever, or some- 
 thing of that sort, and then perhaps Madame might send us 
 out every day ! Your aunt must know him. Davis, if she 
 bowed : didn't you ask his name ? " 
 
 "No, I forgot to ask it." 
 
 " What an idiot you are ! If I don't learn it in a day or two 
 I shall go mad. He " 
 
 " Hush ! " whispered Caroline Davis. " See how those 
 French are listening ! They'll go and tell Mademoiselle that 
 we are speaking English. There's a new pupil come in 
 to-night," she added aloud, in the best French she could 
 call up. 
 
 " Not a pupil," dissented Adeline de Castella. " She used 
 to be a pupil, but is coming now on a sort of visit to Madame, 
 during her mother's absence in England. They have been 
 travelling lately in Italy." 
 
 " Who is she ? " asked Rose. " What's her name ? " 
 
 " Eleanor Seymour. Her mother is the Honourable Mrs. 
 Seymour; she was the daughter of Lord Loftus," continued 
 Adeline, who spoke English perfectly, and understood our 
 grades of rank as well as we do. " Eleanor Seymour is one of 
 the nicest girls I know ; but I suppose she will not be Eleanor 
 Seymour very long, for she is engaged to Mr. Marlborough." 
 
 "Who's Mr. Marlborough ?" asked Rose again. 
 
 "I don't know him," said Adeline. "He is very rich, I 
 believe ; he is staying at Belport." 
 
 " Le souper, mesdemoiselles," called out Mademoiselle 
 Henriette, the head-teacher. 
 
 As Adeline de Castella said, Eleanor's mother was the
 
 MISS ROSE DARLING. 85 
 
 Honourable Mrs. Seymour and the daughter of Lord Loftus. 
 Being this, INIrs. Seymour held her head higher, and was 
 allowed to do it, than any one else in the Anglo-French 
 watering-place, and prided herself on her " blood." It some- 
 times happens that where this " blood " predominates, other 
 requisites are in scarcity ; and it was so with Mrs. Seymour. 
 She was so poor that she hardly knew how to live : her 
 aristocratic relatives helped her out, and they had paid Eleanor's 
 heavy school bills, and so she got along somehow. Her 
 husband, Captain Seymour, dead this many a year ago, had 
 been of even higher connections than herself; also poor. 
 Lord Loftus had never forgiven his daughter for marrying the 
 portionless young officer ; and to be even with her, erased her 
 name from his will. She was a tall, faded lady now, with a 
 hooked nose and supercilious grey eyes. 
 
 When Eleanor left school — as accomplished a young lady 
 as ever Madame de Nino's far-famed establishment turned out 
 — she went on a visit to her aristocratic relatives on both sides, 
 and then travelled to Italy and other places with her mother. 
 This spring they had returned, having been away two years, 
 and settled down in the old place. The tattlers said (and if 
 you want tatde in perfection, go to any of these idle continental 
 watering-places) that Eleanor would never get the opportunity 
 of changing away the name of Seymour : men of rank would 
 not be very likely to seek one situated as she was, and Mrs. 
 Seymour would never allow Eleanor to marry any other. The 
 battle was soon to cotne. 
 
 There came into Belport one day, on his road to Paris, a 
 good-looking young fellow named George Marlborough. Mrs. 
 Seymour was introduced to him at the house of a friend, and 
 though she bowed (figuratively) to his personal attractions, she 
 turned up her haughty nose afterwards when alone with Eleanor, 
 and spoke of him contemptuously. One of the rich commoners 
 of England, indeed ! she slightingly said ; she hated com- 
 moners, especially these rich ones, for they were apt to forget 
 the broad gulf that lay between them and the aristocracy. 
 The old Marlborough, Mr. George's father, had begun life as 
 a clerk or a servant — she could not tell which, neither did it 
 matter — and had ploiided on, until he was the proprietor of an 
 extensive trade, and of great wealth. Iron works, or coal 
 works ; or it might be cotton works ; something down in the 
 North, she believed ; and this George, the eldest son, had been
 
 86 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 brought up to be an iron man too — if it was iron. She desired 
 Eleanor to be very distant with him, if they met again : he had 
 seemed inchned to talk, to her. 
 
 Now poor Eleanor Seymour found this difficult to obey. Mr. 
 George Marlborough remained in the town instead of going on 
 to Paris, and was continually meeting Eleanor. She, poor girl, 
 had not inherited her mother's exclusive notions ; labour as 
 Mrs. Seymour would, she had never been able to beat them 
 into her; and Eleanor grew to like these meetings just as much 
 as Mr. Marlborough did. It was the old tale — they fell in love 
 with each other. 
 
 Mrs. Seymour, when the news was broken to her, lifted her 
 haughty eyelids on George Marlborough, and expressed a belief 
 that the world was coming to an end. It might not have been 
 disclosed to her quite so soon, but that she was about to depart 
 for England on a lengthened visit to an elder sister, from whom 
 she cherished expectations, during which absence Eleanor was 
 to be the guest of Madame de Nino. Mr. Marlborough, v/ho 
 had never once been admitted within Mrs. Seymour's house, 
 took the opportunity of asking for an interview one evening 
 that he had walked from the pier in attendance on them, by 
 Eleanor's side. With a slight gesture of surprise, a movement 
 of her drooping eyelids, the lady led the way to the drawing- 
 room, and Eleanor escaped upstairs. 
 
 She sat in her own room, listening. About ten minutes 
 elapsed — it seemed to Eleanor as many hours — and then the 
 drawing-room bell was rung. Not loud and fast, as though her 
 mother were in anger, but quietly. The next moment she 
 heard Mr. Marlborough's step, as he was shown out of the house. 
 Was he rejected ? Eleanor thought so. 
 
 The bell rang sharply now, and a summons came for Eleanor. 
 She trembled from head to foot as she went down. 
 
 "Eleanor!" began her mother, in her sternest tone, "you 
 knew of this appUcation to me ? " 
 
 Eleanor could not deny it. She burst into frightened, agitated 
 tears. 
 
 " The disgrace of having encouraged the addresses of an iron 
 man ! It is iron : he made no scruple of avowing it. Indeed, 
 you may well cry ! Look at his people- — all iron too : do you 
 think they are fit to mate with ours ? His father was nothing 
 but a working man, and has made himself what he is by actual 
 labour, and the son didn't blush when he said it to me ! Besides 
 
 1
 
 MISS ROSE DARLING. 87 
 
 — I hope I may be forgiven for plotting and planning for you — 
 but I have always hoped that you would become the wife of 
 John Seymour." 
 
 ^^ His wife," sobbed Eleanor. " Oh, mamma, John Seymour's 
 nobody." 
 
 " Nobody ! " echoed the indignant lady. " Lord John Sey- 
 mour nobody ! " 
 
 " But I don't like him, mother." 
 
 " Ugh ! " growled Mrs. Seymour. " Listen. I have not 
 accepted the proposals of this Mr. Marlborough ; but I have 
 not rejected them. I must say he seems liberal enough and 
 rich enough ; proposing I don't know what in the way of 
 settlements : but these low-born people are often lavish. So 
 now, if you have made up your mind to abandon your rank 
 and your order, and every good that makes life valuable, and 
 to enter a family who don't possess as much as a crest, you 
 must do so. Mr. Marlborough obligingly assured me your 
 happiness was centred in him." 
 
 Ah, what mattered the contempt of the tone, while that 
 sweet feeling of joy diffused itself through Eleanor's heart? 
 
 " No reply now," continued Mrs. Seymour, sternly. " The 
 decision lies with you ; but I will not have you speak in haste. 
 Take the night to reflect on the advantages you enjoy in your 
 unblemished descent ; reflect well before you take any step to 
 sully it. To-morrow you can announce your answer." 
 
 You need not ask what Eleanor's answer was. And so, when 
 she entered on her visit at Madame de Nino's, she was an 
 engaged girl ; and the engagement was already known to the 
 world. 
 
 Miss Seymour requested that she might be treated entirely 
 as a pupil. She asked even to join the classes, laughingly 
 saying to Madame de Nino that it would rub up what she had 
 forgotten. She took her place in the schoolroom accordingly. 
 Rose Darling saw a pale girl, with dark hair and a sweet 
 countenance ; and Rose criticized her mercilessly, as she did 
 every one. Another of the schoolgirls, named Emma Mow- 
 bray, a surly, envious girl, whom no one liked, made ill-natured 
 remarks on Eleanor. Miss Seymour certainly presented a 
 contrast to some of them, with her beautifully arranged hair, 
 her flowing muslin dress, and her delicate hands. School- 
 girls, as a whole, are careless of their appearance in school ; 
 and, as a rule, they have red hands. Madame de Nino's pupils
 
 88 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 were no exception. Rose was vain, and therefore always well- 
 dressed ; Adeline de Castella was always well-dressed ; but 
 Emma Mowbray and others were not. Emma's hands, too, 
 were red and coarse, and more so than even those of the 
 careless schoolgirls. Adeline's were naturally beautiful ; and 
 Rose took so much care of hers, wearing gloves in bed in 
 winter, with some mysterious pomade inside. 
 
 Rose made little acquaintance with Eleanor that day. She, 
 Rose, went out to tea in the afternoon, and came back very 
 cross : for she had not once set eyes on her Jia?ice. The story 
 was told to Eleanor Seymour ; who sympathized with her of 
 course, having a lover of her own. 
 
 The next day was Sunday. The French girls were con- 
 ducted at ten o'clock to mass ; the English would leave the 
 house as usual for church a quarter before eleven. Rose was 
 dressed and waiting long before ; her impatience on Sunday 
 mornings was great. Rose was in mourning, and a source of 
 secret chagrin that fact was, for she liked gay clothes better 
 than sombre ones. 
 
 " And so would you be worrying if you had some one wait- 
 ing for you at the church as I have," retorted Rose, in answer 
 to a remark onlier restless impatience, which had been proffered 
 to Miss Seymour by Emma Mowbray, 
 
 " Waiting for you ? " returned Eleanor, looking at Rose, but 
 not understanding, 
 
 " She means her lover. Miss Seymour," said Emma Mowbray. 
 
 " Yes, I do; and 1 don't care if I avow it," cried Rose, her 
 face glowing, " I know he loves me. He never takes his 
 eyes off me in church, and every glance speaks of love." 
 
 " He looks up at the other schools as much as he looks at 
 ours," said Emma Mowbray, who could rarely speak without a 
 sneer, " Besides, he only returns the glances you give him : 
 love or no love, he would be a sorry gallant not to do that," 
 
 "Last Thursday," cried Rose, unmindful of the reproof, "he 
 smiled and took off his hat to me as the school passed him in 
 the street." 
 
 "But little Annette Duval said she saw you nod to him 
 first ! " said Charlotte Singleton, the archdeacon's daughter, 
 
 "x\nnette Duval's a miserable little story-teller, I'll box 
 her ears when she comes in from mass. The fact is. Miss 
 Seymour," added Rose, turning to the stranger who had come 
 amidst them, " the girls here are all jealous of me, and Emma
 
 MISS ROSE DARLING. 89 
 
 Mowbray doubly jealous. He is one of the divinest fellows 
 that ever walked upon the earth. You should see his eyes and 
 his auburn hair." 
 
 " With a tinge of red in it," put in Emma Mowbray. 
 
 " Well, you must point him out to me," said Eleanor, and 
 then hastened to change the conversation, for she had an 
 instinctive dread of any sort of quarrelling, and disliked ill- 
 nature. Emma Mowbray had not favourably impressed her : 
 Rose had, in spite of her vanity and her random avowals. 
 " You are in mourning. Miss Darling ? " 
 
 " Yes, for my eldest sister's husband, Mr. Carleton St. John. 
 But I have a new white bonnet, you see, though he has not 
 been dead many weeks : and I don't care whether mamma 
 finds it out or not. I told the milliner she need not specify in 
 the bill whether the bonnet was white or black. Oh dear ! 
 where is Mademoiselle Clarisse ? " 
 
 Mademoiselle Clarisse, the teacher who took them to church 
 (and who took also a book hidden under her own arm to read 
 surreptitiously during the sermon, not a word of which dis- 
 course could her French ears understand) came at last. As 
 the school took its seats in the gallery of the church, the few 
 who were in Rose's secret looked down with interest, for the 
 gentleman in question was then coming up the middle aisle, 
 accompanied by a lady and a litde girl. 
 
 " There he is ! " whispered Rose to Eleanor, next to whom 
 she sat, and her voice was as one glow of exultation, and her 
 cheeks flushed crimson. " Going into the pew below. I'here : 
 he is handing in the little girl. Do you see ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Eleanor. " What of him ? " 
 
 "It is he. He whom the girls tease me about, w\y fiance, as 
 they call him, I trust my future husband. That he loves me, 
 I am positive." 
 
 Eleanor answered nothing. Her face was as red as Rose's 
 just then ; but Rose was too much occupied with something 
 else to notice it. The gentleman — who was really a handsome 
 young man — was looking up at the gallery, and a bright smile 
 of recognition, meant for one of them, shone on his face. 
 Rose naturally took it to herself 
 
 " Did you see that? did yoM see that?" she whispered right 
 ana left. " Emma Mowbray, who took first notice now ? " 
 
 The service began. At its conclusion Rose pushed uncere- 
 moniously out of the pew, and the rest followed her, in spite
 
 90 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 of precedent, for the schools waited until last ; and in spite of 
 Mademoiselle Clarisse. But, on the previous Sunday, Rose 
 had been too late to see him : he had left the church. On 
 this, as the event proved, she was too early, for he had not 
 come out ; and Mademoiselle Clarisse, who was in a terrible 
 humour with them for their rudeness, marched them home at 
 a quick pace. 
 
 " If ever truth and faith were in man, I know they are in 
 him ! " raved Rose, when they got home, and were in the 
 dressing-room. " He'll make the best husband in the world." 
 
 "You have not got him yet," cried Emma Mowbray. 
 
 " Bah ! Did you see the look and smile he gave me ? Did 
 yoii see it. Miss Seymour ? — and I don't suppose you are pre- 
 judiced against me as these others are. There was true love 
 in that smile, if ever I saw love. That ugly Mademoiselle 
 Clarisse, to have dragged us on so ! I wish she had been 
 
 taken with apoplexy on the steps ! He Where's Miss 
 
 Seymour gone to ? " broke off Rose, for Eleanor had quitted 
 the dressing-room without taking off her things. 
 
 " I heard her say she was invited to dine at Mrs. Marl- 
 borough's," answered Mary Carr. 
 
 " I say ! there's the dinner-bell. Make haste, all of you ! 
 I wonder they don't ring it before we get home ! " 
 
 That afternoon Madame de Nino conducted the girls to 
 church herself. A truly good Catholic, as she was, she was no 
 bigot, and now and then sat in the English church. The 
 young ladies did not thank her. They were obliged to be on 
 church-behaviour then : there could be no inattention with 
 her ; no staring about, however divine might be the male part 
 of the congregation ; no rushing out early or stopping late, 
 according to their own pleasure. Rose's lover was not there, 
 and Rose fidgeted on her seat ; but just as the service began, 
 the lady and little girl they had noticed in the morning came 
 up the aisle, and he followed by the side of Eleanor Seymour. 
 The girls did not dare to bend forward to look at Rose, 
 Madame being there. The tip of her pretty nose, all that 
 could be seen of her, was very pale. 
 
 " The forward creature ! the deceitful good-for-nothing ! " 
 broke from Rose Darling's lips when they got home. " You 
 girls have called me bold, but look at that brazen Eleanor 
 Seymour ! She never saw him until this morning : I pointed 
 him out to her in church for the first time ; and she must go
 
 MISS ROSE DARLING, 91 
 
 and make acquaintance with him in this barefaced manner ! 
 As sure as she Hves, I'll expose her to Madame de Nino ! A 
 gid Hke that would contaminate the school ! If our friends 
 knew we were exposed to her companionship, they'd re- 
 move " 
 
 Rose's passionate words w^ere cut short by the entrance of 
 Madame herself, who came in to give some instructions to the 
 teachers, for she was going out for the evening. Rose, too 
 angry to weigh her words or their possible consequences, went 
 up to Madame, and said something in a fast, confused tone. 
 INIadame de Nino, a portly, dark-eyed, kind woman, concluded 
 her directions, and then turned to Rose, who was a favoured 
 pupil. 
 
 " What do you say. Mademoiselle Rose ? Did I see the 
 gentleman who was at church with Miss Seymour ? Yes ; a 
 very prepossessing young man. I spoke with him to-day when 
 they came for her." 
 
 A moment's puzzled wonder, and then a frightful thought 
 took hold of Rose. 
 
 " Do you know him, Madame ? " she gasped. " Who is he ?" 
 
 "Young Mr. Marlborough. Mademoiselle Eleanor is be- 
 trothed to him." 
 
 Madame left the room. And the girls sat breathless with 
 astonishment, scarcely daring to steal a glance at Rose Darling's 
 white and stony features. 
 
 The weeks went on to the sultry days of August, and most 
 of the girls were studying away might and main for the prizes. 
 A day-pupil had temporarily entered the school, Anna Marl- 
 borough, the youngest of the Marlborough family, and the 
 only one who had come abroad with her mother. It was not 
 Madame de Nino's habit to admit day-pupils, but she had 
 made an exception in favour of this child, who was to be in 
 the town but a few weeks. 
 
 Will it be credited that Rose Darling was still pursuing her 
 preposterous flirtation with George Marlborough, in the face 
 of the discovery that he was engaged to Eleanor Seymour? 
 But there was something to be urged in her favour, though you 
 are no doubt surprised to hear me say it. Had a jury been 
 trying Rose, they might liave returned a verdict, "Guilty, with 
 extenuating circumstances." Rose seemed bewitched. There 
 is no doubt that a real, an ardent passion for George Marl- 
 borough had arisen in her heart, filling its every crevice ; and
 
 92 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 she regarded Eleanor (she could not help it) with a fierce, 
 jealous rivalry. But the girl, with all her random folly, was 
 no fool ; and but for certain events that arose, might have 
 remained as quiescent as she could, until her ill-starred love 
 died out. 
 
 It did not, and could not, contribute to any good resolutions 
 she might have had strength and sense to form, to find herself 
 on intimate terms with Mr. Marlborough, a frequent visitor to 
 his house. That mistake was, in the first instance, Eleanor 
 Seymour's. Eleanor had been commissioned by Mrs. Marl- 
 borough to invite three or four of the young ladies to accom- 
 pany her there to dinner ; something was said in the school 
 about her not daring to ask Rose ; and Eleanor invited Rose 
 forthwith. Rose went. It had been more prudent had she 
 stayed at home : but Rose was not one of the prudent sort : 
 and the temptation was irresistible. Mrs. Marlborough was 
 charmed with her, and so was George. Whether the ge-ntleman 
 detected Rose's feelings for himself, and was flattered, or 
 whether he had no objection to a flirtation with a pretty girl, 
 although engaged to another, certain it was he paid Rose con- 
 siderable attention, and laughed and joked with her much. 
 
 Joked with her. It was all done on his part in the spirit of 
 joking, as Eleanor Seymour might have seen ; but joking some- 
 times leads to something more. Messages from one to the 
 other, begun in folly, often passed ; and Anna Marlborough, a 
 giddy girl of twelve, was the go-between. Just upon this, 
 Rose's brother. Captain Darling, came to Belport ; he soon 
 struck up a friendship with Mr. Marlborough, and here was 
 another link in Rose's chain. She would meet the two young 
 men in the street, and leave the ranks, in defiance of rules, 
 ostensibly to shake hands with Frank, really to talk nonsense 
 with Mr. Marlborough. Even Eleanor Seymour, when out 
 with the school, would conform to its rules and only bow and 
 smile as he passed. Not so Rose. The girls would have gone 
 the length of the street, two sometimes, before she caught them 
 up, panting and flushed and looking radiant, and boasting of 
 what George had said to her. It was of no use the teachers 
 remonstrating and forbidding ; do it she would, and do it she 
 did. 
 
 This was what may be called the open, harmless stage of the 
 affair. But it was to go on to another. 
 
 There was a large party given one night at a Scotch laird's,
 
 MISS ROSE DARLING. 93 
 
 Sir Sandy Alaxwell, and Miss Seymour and Rose were invited. 
 You may be aware, perhaps, that it is the custom in French 
 schools, generally speaking, for the pupils to visit or not, 
 according to the directions left by the parents. This had been 
 accorded to Rose by Mrs. Darling ; and Eleanor Seymour was 
 not as a schoolgirl — therefore Madame de Nino, though openly 
 expressing her disapprobation of these large parties while young 
 ladies were pursuing their studies, did not refuse. Emma Mow- 
 bray offered a bet to the school that Mr. Marlborough would 
 dance more dances with Rose than with Eleanor: and so eager 
 were the gnls to hear the result, that those in the large dortoir 
 kept awake until they came home. It had struck one o'clock, 
 and Madame was up in arms ; she had only given them to 
 half-past eleven, and they had kept the coach waiting all that 
 time, while Madame's own maid, old Eelicite, was inside it. After 
 all, there was nothing to hear, for Mn Marlborough had not 
 made his appearance at the party. 
 
 Class was not over the next morning until very late ; it always 
 was late just before giving the prizes. It was the third Thurs- 
 day in August, the sorti day, and three of the girls were going 
 with f^leanor to dine at Mrs. Marlborough's : Rose, Mary "Carr, 
 and Adeline de Castella. The invitations were left to Miss 
 Seymour, and she always fixed on Rose, in a sort of bravado, 
 but she never once chose Emma Mowbray; and this gave that 
 young lady considerable offence, as was known to the school. 
 They were to partake of the usual dinner at school by way of 
 luncheon, the Marlboroughs not dining until six. While the 
 cloth was being laid, the girls dispersed about, some in the 
 courtyard, some in the garden, all in the shade, for it was very 
 sultry. There was certainly something more than common the 
 matter with Rose : she appeared half-crazy with joy. 
 
 " It is because she's going out," remarked Mary Carr to 
 Eleanon 
 
 *' Is it, though ! " put in Emma Mowbray ; " that's only a 
 little item in the cause. She has just had a love-letter from 
 Mr. Marlborough." 
 
 Eleanor Seymour's cheek changed. 
 
 " Don't talk absurdities," said Mary Carr to the Mowbray 
 girl. 
 
 "Absurdities!" she retorted, moving away. " If I can, I'll 
 convince you." 
 
 A minute or two, and she came back widi a letter in licr
 
 94 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 hand — an open letter, addressed in George Marlborough's 
 hand to Rose — and handed it to Mary Cam 
 
 " Am I to read it?" asked the latter. 
 
 " If you choose. It is pro bono publico, Rose says." And 
 Miss Carr read the letter aloud. 
 
 " My dearest, 
 
 "You must have been surprised not to see me at Sir 
 Sandy's. I was dressing to come, when a message arrived for 
 me from the Hotel du Nord ; poor Priestley had met with a 
 sad accident to his hand from the bursting of a gun. I have 
 been sitting up with him until now, four o'clock a.m., but I 
 write this to you before I sleep, for you have a right now to 
 my every thought, to know every movement. You dine here 
 to-day, my {"xw fiancee also ; but I wish you were coming alone. 
 
 " Ever yours only, 
 
 " George Marlborough." 
 
 Was there any mistake in the letter ? Mary Carr had often 
 heard of such. Could it have been written to Rose ? Alas, 
 yes ! it was all too plain. The writing was George Marl- 
 borough's ; the address, " Miss Rose Darling, En Ville," was 
 his; and the seal, "G. M.," was his also. Mary rose, and 
 stood before Eleanor, shielding her from observation, as she 
 beckoned to Anna Marlborough : while Emma Mowbray 
 looked defiant, and asked whether they would believe her 
 next time. 
 
 The child was dancing about the courtyard. She was young, 
 and the school made her a sort of plaything : she came danc- 
 ing up to Miss Carr. 
 
 " Now, Anna, I have something to ask you ; and if you 
 equivocate by so much as a word, I will acquaint Madame de 
 Nino that there's a letter-carrier in the school ; you would be 
 expelled that same hour. Did you bring a note here from your 
 brother this morning?" 
 
 "Yes, I did," stammered Anna. " Don't tell of me, please." 
 
 " I'll not tell, if you speak the truth. To whom did you 
 bring it?" 
 
 " To Miss Darling." 
 
 " Did he send it to herl What did he say when he gave it 
 to you ? " 
 
 " He told me to give it into her own hands when nobody
 
 MISS ROSE DARLING. 95 
 
 was by, and to give his love with it," answered Anna. "Oh, 
 pray don't tell of me, Miss Carr ! It's nothing much more than 
 usual ; he often sends his love by me to ISiiss Darling." 
 
 "Was this the letter you brought?" holding out the one she 
 still retained in her hand. 
 
 "Yes, it was that. I'll never do it again," continued Anna, 
 growing frightened, and bursting into tears. 
 
 Which caused Miss Mowbray to rate her for a " little fool ; " 
 and Anna ran away, glad to be released. Close upon that, up 
 dashed Rose in agitation, having discovered the loss of her 
 note. The note had not been declared by Rose to be/w bono 
 publico, and Emma ISIowbray had dishonourably abstracted it 
 from her apron pocket. Rose got possession of it again, but 
 she was in a great passion with Emma Mowbray : in fact, with 
 them all. 
 
 And poor Eleanor Seymour ! She was white as marble when 
 Mary turned to her. Sitting there, on the old wooden bench, 
 so outwardly calm and still, she had heard the whole. Clasp- 
 ing Mary Carr's hands with a painful pressure, she burst into 
 an uncontrollable fit of weeping, and glided in at the porch- 
 door to gain the staircase. " Make any excuse for me at the 
 dinner-table, Mary," she whispered. 
 
 Need you be told that that letter was really written to 
 Eleanor? The words '■'■ {d\x fiancee''' in it alone related to Rose, 
 and Mr. Marlborough had penned them in laughing allusion to 
 the joke in the school. The plot was Emma Mowbray's, a 
 little bit of revenge on Eleanor and Rose, both of whom she 
 envied and disliked. She had made Anna her tool. The 
 child, at her prompting, wrote a letter to Rose, and got her 
 brother to direct and seal it ; and Emma Mowbray opened the 
 two envelopes cleverly by means of passing a penknife under 
 the seals, and substituted the one note for the other. Thus 
 Eleanor's letter was conveyed to Rose; the other Emma 
 Mowbray burnt ; and she promised a whole charrctte full of 
 good things to Anna to keep her counsel. Being a mischief- 
 loving little damsel, Miss Anna did so ; though she was nearly 
 frightened out of it by Miss Carr. 
 
 This may sound very shallow, very weak, but I assure you 
 the circumstances took place just as they are described. Had 
 George Marlborough only put Eleanor's name in the note, the 
 trick could not have been played. But he did not do so. And 
 neither Rose nor Eleanor suspected for a moment that there
 
 96 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 was anything about the note not genuine ; or that it had not 
 been written to Rose. 
 
 They went to dinner at Mrs. Marlborough's — Eleanor with 
 her beating heart of resentment and her outraged love, Rose 
 radiant with happiness and beauty. The evening did not mend 
 matters, but rather added very much to the broil. May the 
 word be forgiven ? — I was thinking of the French one. Eleanor, 
 cold, haughty, contemptuous, was almost insulting to Mr. 
 Marlborough ; and Rose, it is to be feared, let him see, that 
 evening, where her best love was given. He took more than 
 one opportunity of asking Eleanor how he had offended her, 
 but he could get no answer. If she had only given hmi a clue 
 to it, how much trouble and misery would have been saved ! 
 but the very asking on his part seemed to Eleanor only addmg 
 insult to injury. You see they were all at cross-purposes, and 
 just for the want of a little word of explanation. 
 
 From that hour there was no peace, no mutual understanding 
 between Eleanor and Mr. Marlborough, He repeatedly sought 
 an explanation of the sudden change in her behaviour, some- 
 times by letter, sometimes in words. She never would give an 
 answer to either. She returned his letters in blank envelopes, 
 or tore them to pieces before the messenger's eyes ; she refused 
 tD see him if he called ; she haughtily held aloof from him when 
 they met. Mrs. Marlborough saw that something was wrong, 
 but as neither of them made her their confidant, she did not 
 interfere, and she supposed it to be only a lovers' quarrel. She 
 had not known Eleanor long, having come to Belport only the 
 week before that Sunday Rose first saw her at church. Rose 
 alone seemed la a state of happiness, of ecstatic delight; and 
 Anna now carried no end of notes and messages to and fro, 
 and kept it secret from the school. Rose had committed one 
 great folly — she had written to Mr. Marlborough after the 
 receipt of that first letter. But then, it must be always 
 remembered that no suspicion had yet crossed her mind that 
 it was not written to her and meant for her. Rose fully 
 believed — let it be her excuse — that Mr. Marlborough had 
 transferred his affections from Eleanor to herself : the school 
 believed it. Whether she really hoped she should succeed in 
 supplanting Eleanor in the offer of marriage, in becoming 
 afterwards his wife, cannot be told. The girls thought she did, 
 and they were sharp observers. At any rate, Rose now deemed 
 the field as legitimately open to her, as it was to Eleanor.
 
 MISS ROSE DARLING. 97 
 
 The day for awarding the prizes was a great day. The girls 
 were attired in white, with blue sashes and blue neck-ribbons; 
 and the hairdresser arrived very early in the morning to get 
 done in time. A large company arrived by invitation ; and 
 just before the hour for going in, some of the girls saw Rose 
 in the garden talking to a gentleman. Madeleine de Gassi- 
 court, usually so short-sighted, espied her out. 
 
 " It must be her brodare wid her," cried Madeleine, who 
 was not in the secret. " She will derange her hair before we 
 do go in." 
 
 Emma Mowbray peered through the trees. It was no "bro- 
 dare," but Mr. Marlborough. He was bending down to Rose; 
 she appeared to be crying, and he held her hand in his as he 
 talked to her earnestly. Emma Mowbray glanced round at 
 Eleanor, who was at the window, and saw it all. She was very 
 pale and still, her lips compressed. 
 
 But Rose's stolen interview could have lasted only a few 
 fleeting minutes. The hands of the clock were then pointing 
 towards two, and as the hour struck she was amongst them, and 
 they were being marshalled for the entrance to the prize-room. 
 It was a pleasing sight when they went in, making their 
 reverences to the assembled visitors. Two pretty young 
 English girls walked first — sisters , and certainly the two prettiest 
 of the elders walked last ; Rose Darling and Adeline de 
 Castella ; both beautiful, but so unlike in their beauty. Adeline 
 gained nine prizes ; Rose only two. But Rose had been study- 
 ing for another sort of prize. 
 
 The holidays succeeded — dull and quiet. Of the elder girls, 
 Adeline, Rose, and Mary Carr alone remained, and there was, 
 of course, Miss Seymour. Mrs. Marlborough was leaving the 
 town ; George was not. Eleanor, who seemed to be visibly 
 declining, would not go out anywhere, so she did not meet him ; 
 but Rose, always out, met him constantly. 
 
 One afternoon, when Eleanor was growing paler day by day, 
 a bit of folded paper was brought to her in the schoolroom. 
 She opened it, and saw a few words in pencil — 
 
 " I am now waiting in the salon. You have been denied to 
 me as usual ; yet, Eleanor, let me entreat you to grant me, for 
 this once, an interview. I leave by the boat for London to- 
 night, but if I can see you now, my voyage may not be neces- 
 sary. By the love we once bore each other, I beseech you, 
 Eleanor, come. — G. M." 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. 7
 
 98 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Eleanor read it, tore the paper deliberately in two, and 
 handed the pieces to Clotilde. '' Give that to the gentleman," 
 she haughtily said. " There is no other answer." 
 
 Rose followed the maid from the room. " Clotilde," she 
 whispered, " who is in the salon ? " 
 
 " The handsome monsieur that was going to marry himself, 
 as people said, with Mademoiselle Seymour," was the servant's 
 rejoinder. 
 
 " Give me the answer," said Rose, taking the torn pieces from 
 her hand. '■ I want to send a message to Madame, his mother, 
 and will deliver this. I say, Clotilde, don't tell Madame that 
 he's here." 
 
 The unsuspicious servant went about her business ; and Miss 
 Rose tripped to the salon, and stayed as long as she dared. 
 
 That same evening Eleanor Seymour was giving Mary Carr 
 a description of Rome ; they were seated in a corner of the 
 small class-room ; and Adeline de Castella corrected her Avhen 
 she was wrong, for she knew Rome Avell. Mademoiselle 
 Josephine (Mam'selle Fifine, the school called her in general), 
 the only teacher remaining, was at her table in front of the 
 window, writing letters. When it grew too dark to see, she 
 closed her desk, turned round, and suddenly, as if surprised not 
 to see her with the others, asked where Rose w^as. 
 
 The young ladies did not know. Rose had been upstairs in 
 the bedroom since the afternoon. She came down for collation, 
 and went up again directly. 
 
 Mam'selle Fifine began to scold ; she was the crossest of all 
 the teachers, except Mam'selle Clarisse. It was not likely Miss 
 Rose was stopping upstairs in the dark ; she must have got a 
 light, which, as INIesdemoiselles knew well, was contrary to 
 rules. And she told Miss Carr to go and desire her to come 
 down. 
 
 Mary Carr rose with a yawn ; they had been sitting there 
 long, and she felt cramped. " Who will go with me ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 Both the young ladies responded, and all three stumbled up 
 the dark staircase together. They found no light in the bed- 
 rooms, and could see nothing of Rose. Thinking it possible she 
 might have fallen asleep on one of the beds, Adeline ran down 
 and got a candle from one of the servants. 
 
 There was no Rose; but on her bed lay a sealed note, 
 addressed to Miss Carr : —
 
 MISS ROSE DARLING. 99 
 
 "Dear Mary, 
 
 " I know you have been against me for some time. 
 Miss Seymour and I were rivals — equals on a fair ground ; you 
 would have helped her on, though it left me to a broken heart. 
 I believe it has been a neck-and-neck race between us, but I 
 have won. I hope mamma will reconcile herself to the step 
 I am taking ; I always longed to make a runaway marriage, it 
 is so romantic ; and if Frank flies out about it, I shan't care, 
 for I shan't hear him. When next you see me I shall be 
 
 "Rose Marlborough." 
 
 " Look to Miss Seymour ! " broke from the quivenng lips of 
 Adeline de Castella. And it was timely spoken, for Eleanor 
 v.'as fainting. Scarcely had she revived, when Mam'selle Fifine 
 came up, angry at the delay. 
 
 The note they did not dare to show ; but were obliged to 
 confess to the absence of Rose, saying, tout bonnenient, as 
 Adeline called it, that they could not find her. 
 
 Rose not to be found ! Madame de Nino was dining out, 
 and Mam'selle Fifine was terrified out of her sober senses. In 
 the midst of the hubbub that ensued, Julie, the head fiUe-de- 
 chambre, put her head in at the door, and said, " The Honour- 
 able Mrs. Seymour." 
 
 At a time of less commotion they would have burst out 
 laughing. Julie had been nurse m a nobleman's family in 
 England ; she had there become familiar with British titles, and 
 was as fond of using them as she was of using her English. 
 One day Ethel Daw's mother came to see her; a very fine 
 lady, all flounces, and feathers, and gold chains. It was Julie's 
 luck to show her to the salon ; and she came to the schoolroom 
 afterwards, flung open the door, and called out, " JMrs. Daw, 
 Esquire." Julie did not hear the last of that. The girls called 
 her ever after Squire Daw. 
 
 "The Honourable Mrs. Seymour." 
 
 With a sharp cry Eleanor started up, and flew into her 
 mother's arms, sobbing convulsively. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, take me home ! take me home ! " 
 
 Mrs. Seymour was thunderstruck, not only at Eleanor's cry 
 of pain, but at the change in her appearance. She had just 
 returned from London. Mary Carr disclosed a little of the 
 truth. She thought it best ; and, indeed, was unable to evade 
 the keen questioning of Mrs. Seymour. But Rose's note, with
 
 lOo ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 the information it contained, was buried in silence still. Mrs. 
 Seymour took her daughter home at once ; and there Eleanor 
 told the whole — that Rose had really gone away with Mr. 
 Marlborough. Mrs. Seymour folded her aristocratic hands, 
 and distinctly desired that no further allusion to it should ever 
 pass her daughter's lips, as it would not her own. It was a 
 retribution on them, she said, for having trusted an " iron man." 
 
 Meanwhile, Adeline de Castella and Mary Carr kept their 
 own counsel through sheer obligation : as they had not declared 
 all they knew at once, they dared not declare it now. And 
 Madame de Nino verily believed Rose had been spirited away 
 to the skies. 
 
 It was three days afterwards. Mrs. Seymour sat in her 
 drawing-room, the green Venetian shutters partially closed, and 
 the blinds down, for Eleanor lay on the sofa quite prostrated. 
 Mrs. Seymour was in a state of as much indignation as was 
 consistent with her high birth and her proclaimed assertion 
 that they were "well rid of him;" for, in spite of the "iron" 
 drawback, she had grown to hug to her heart the prospect of 
 this most desirable establisliment for Eleanor. 
 
 Suddenly the door opened, and the iron man himself 
 walked in. Eleanor struggled up from the sofa, and Mrs. 
 Seymour rose in hauteur, all the blood of the Loftuses flashing 
 from her light grey eyes. Then ensued a contest ; each side 
 struggling for the mastership ; Mrs. Seymour refusing to hold 
 commune with him, and Mr. Marlborough insisting upon being 
 heard. 
 
 He had gone to England three days ago in search of her, 
 he said ; he then found she had left for France, and he had 
 followed her. His object was to request that she would lay 
 her commands on Eleanor to afford him an explanation. 
 Eleanor had been his promised wife ; and without offence on 
 his part, without any known cause, her behaviour had suddenly 
 changed to him. In vain he had sought an explanation of 
 her; she would afford him none; and his only resource was 
 to appeal to Mrs. Seymour. If Eleanor refused to fulfil her 
 engagement with him, he could not insist upon it ; but he must 
 insist upon knowing the reason for the change : to that he had 
 a right. 
 
 " You had better leave the room quietly, sir," said Mrs. Sey- 
 mour in frigid tones. " It will not be pleasant to you if I call 
 my servants.'' 
 
 <
 
 •/r_c 
 
 ^VMAJV^ 
 
 MISS ROSE DARLING. loi 
 
 "I will not leave it without an explanation," he replied. 
 " Mrs. Seymour, you cannot refuse it; if Eleanor will not give 
 it me in courtesy, I repeat that I must demand it as a right. 
 Eleanor's conduct at the time seemed to imply that there was 
 some cause of complaint against me. What was it ? I declare 
 to you solemnly that I was unconscious of it ; that I was 
 innocent of offence against her." 
 
 His words and manner were painfully earnest and truthful, 
 and Mrs. Seymour hesitated. 
 
 " Has there been any mistake, Eleanor ? " she hesitated, 
 appealing to her daughter. 
 
 " Oh, let me know what it is," he implored, before Eleanor 
 could speak. " Whatever it may be — mistake — cause — reality 
 — let me know it." 
 
 "Well, sir," cried Mrs. Seymour, making a sudden resolution, 
 " I will first ask you what you have done with that unfortunate 
 young lady, whom you took away from her sheltering roof and 
 her duties, three days ago ? " 
 
 " I took no young lady away," replied Mr. Marlborough. 
 
 " What have you done with Miss Darling ? " 
 
 "Not anything." 
 
 "You did not induce her to elope with you? You did not 
 take her to London ? " 
 
 " Indeed, no. I saw Miss Darling on the port the evening 
 I went away, and left her there. She was with her brother. 
 But this is no explanation, Mrs. Seymour. Eleanor," he added, 
 walking up, and standing before her, " I once again appeal to 
 you. What was the cause of your first and sudden coldness ? " 
 
 "Speak out, Eleanor," said her mother. "I know almost as 
 little as Mr. Marlborough, but I now think the matter should 
 be cleared up, that we may come at the truth. There must be 
 a strange mystery somewhere." 
 
 Eleanor pressed her thin hands upon her side in agitation. 
 She could only speak in a whisper, in uneven sentences : and 
 she told of the love-letter written to Rose the day following the 
 dance at Sir Sandy Maxwell's. 
 
 " It was written to you, Eleanor," said Mr. Marlborough. 
 
 " 1 read that note," she answered, gasping for breath. " It 
 was written to Rose." 
 
 " It was written to you, Eleanor. I have never written a 
 loving note, as that was, to Rose Darling in my life ; on my 
 sacred word of honour."
 
 I02 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " You have written several notes to Rose !" 
 
 " True ; since ; but never loving ones : they might all have 
 been posted up on the schoolroom walls, and even Madame de 
 Nino herself could not have found fault wath them. If this note 
 was given to Rose, Anna must have changed the envelopes. I 
 remember directing one for her to Miss Darling that morning, 
 Eleanor," he gravely said, "'I fear you have been running your 
 head against a chimera." 
 
 " Rose loves you/' she whispered, her heart and voice alike 
 softening. 
 
 "No; nonsense !" — but for all his denial there was a glow 
 of consciousness on Mr. Marlborough's countenance. " Eleanor, 
 I honestly believe that you have been listening to the folly 
 talked by those schoolgirls, and taken it for gospel. Rose 
 Darling is very pretty, and likes to be admired ; and if I have 
 been throw^n a good deal with her, who threw me? You, 
 Eleanor, by your coldness and avoidance of me. I don't deny 
 that I have talked lightly and gaily with Rose, never seriously ; 
 
 I don't deny that " I have kissed her, he was going to add 
 
 in his candour, but thought it might be as well to leave that 
 out before Mrs. Seymour. " But my love and my allegiance 
 have never swerved from jv//, Eleanor." 
 
 She burst into happy tears, Mrs. Seymour cut them short 
 sternly. 
 
 " Eleanor, this note that you talk of, left by Miss Darling on 
 her bed the other night, must have been meant as a hoax upon 
 you and the two credulous young ladies, your companions. 1 
 did think it a most strange thing that a young lady of position 
 should be guilty of anything so vulgar as an elopement. Not 
 but that it Avas excessively bad to make it the subject even of a 
 jest." 
 
 " I suppose it must have been," sobbed Eleanor. " And it 
 seemed so earnest ! " 
 
 Mr. Marlborough could have disclosed hoz(j earnest, had he 
 chosen. In that interview in the salon with Rose, when he 
 told her he was going away, he learnt how much she loved 
 him. In the anguish of parting, Rose dropped words that 
 sufficiently enlightened him — if he had not been enlightened 
 before. He passed it all off as a jest ; he said something to 
 the effect that he had better take her with him to Gretna, all in 
 jest, in simple folly : and he spoke in this light manner for 
 Rose's sake : he would not suffer her to think she had betrayed
 
 MISS ROSE DARLING. 103 
 
 her secret What, then, was his astonishment when, in coming 
 out of the permit office at night on the port, preparatory to 
 stepping on board the boat, to see Rose ! She had taken his 
 words seriously. What he would have done to save the boat 
 in his dilemma — for he must inevitably have lost it while he 
 escorted Rose back to Madame de Nino's— he did not know ; 
 but at that moment who should come up but Captain Darling. 
 He gave the young lady into her brother's charge, with a half- 
 word of explanation ; and he never supposed but that Rose had 
 been safely lodged at school within the hour. But IMr. Marl- 
 borough was a man who could keep his counsel on these 
 particulars, even to Eleanor, and he did keep it. 
 
 " Let this be a warning to your wedded life, Eleanor," ob- 
 served Mrs. Seymour. " Never have any concealments from 
 your husband. Had you frankly spoken to Mr. Marlborough 
 of that first misdirected letter, which seems to have been the 
 primary cause of all the mischief, the affair would have been 
 cleared up at once." 
 
 " It's enough to make a man swear he will never use another 
 envelope," exclaimed Mr. Marlborough, with his old happy 
 smile of love. " But you need not have doubted me, Eleanor." 
 
 Meanwhile, where ivas Rose? Madame de Nino, in the 
 eleventh stage of desperation and perplexity, sent ten times a 
 day to Captain Darling's lodgings ; but he had disappeared 
 also. Mam'selle Fifine, who of course came in for the blame, 
 alternately sobbed and scolded aloud ; and Adeline and Mary 
 Carr felt sick with the weight of the secret they were keeping. 
 This state of things, stormy within doors as the weather was 
 without, lasted for three days, and then Rose returned, escorted 
 by her brother. 
 
 But what a shocking plight she was in ! Drenched with rain 
 and sea-water • clothes soaked and clinging round her; quite 
 prostrated with three days' sea-sickness ; lying half-dead all 
 that time in a rolling fishing-smack, the wind blowing great 
 guns and she nearly dead with fright ; nothing to eat and drink 
 on board but salt herrings and sour beer, even supposing she 
 could have eaten at all ! — no wonder Rose forgot her good 
 manners and told her brother he was a brute for taking her. 
 Rose had happened to put on her best things, too : a white 
 chip bonnet and pearl-grey damask dress. You should have 
 seen them when she came in ! 
 
 So it was quite a mistake, Miss Carr and Adeline found, a
 
 104 ST, MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 trick, no doubt, played them purposely by Rose, and there had 
 been no elopement at all, or thought of one : nothing but a 
 three-days' cruise round the coast with her brother, in the 
 fishing-smack of some honest, rough, hard-working sailors ! 
 Captain Darling made a thousand apologies to Madame de 
 Nino when he brought her home — the object that Rose pre- 
 sented upon his handing her out of the coach ! — and laid it 
 all to the fault of that treacherous wind ; which had kept 
 them at sea three days, when he had only contemplated treat- 
 ing her to a little excursion of an hour for the good of her 
 health. 
 
 Madame was appeased at length. But Mam'selle Fifine is sore 
 upon the point to this day. As she justly observed, there must 
 have been something out of the common amiss with that par- 
 ticular fishing-boat. Granted the rough wind; but other boats 
 made the port fast enough, so why not that one ? Rose could 
 or would give no explanation, and was as sullen as a bear for 
 a whole month. 
 
 And ere that month had well run its course, news came 
 down from Paris of the marriage of George Marlborough and 
 Miss Seymour. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 GEORGINA BEAUCLERC'S LOVE. 
 
 We must go to Castle Wafer. Isaac St. John has his writing- 
 table drawn to the open window this mellow September day, 
 and sits at it. But he is not writing now. He leans back in 
 his padded chair, and the lines of thought — of care — lie on his 
 otherwise serene face. Care for Isaac St. John the recluse? 
 Verily, yes ; even for him. If we could live lives of utter 
 isolation from our species, we might escape it; otherwise, 
 never. 
 
 Looking at him now, his back buried in the soft chair, his 
 fiice, so pleasant to the eye, turned rather upwards, and his 
 thin white hands resting listlessly, one on the elbow of the 
 chair, one down on his knee, a stranger would have failed to 
 detect anything amiss with the person of Isaac St. John, or 
 that it was not like other men's. For the first forty years of 
 Isaac St. John's existence, his days had been as one long, ever-
 
 GEORGINA BEAUCLERC'S LOVE. 105 
 
 present mortification ; that disfiguring hump and his sensitive- 
 ness doing battle together. Why it should be so, I know not, 
 but it is an indisputable fact, that where any defect of person 
 exists, any deformity — two of the qualities pertaining to our 
 nature exist in the mind in a supereminent degree, sensitive- 
 ness and vanity, perhaps for the good of the soul, certainly to 
 the marring of its peace. It has been so since the world 
 began; it will be so to its ending. Isaac St. John was no 
 exception. There never can be an exception ; for this seems 
 to be a law of nature. Remember the club-foot of Byron, and 
 what it did for him. This shrinking sensitiveness, far more 
 than his health, had converted Mr. St. John into a hermit. It 
 was terrible to him to go forth unto the gaze of his fellow-men, 
 for — he carried his deformity with him. Now that he was 
 advancing in years, growing onwards to be an old man, the 
 feeling was wearing off; the keen edge of the razor which had 
 cut all ways was becoming somewhat blunt : but it must ever 
 remain with him in a greater or lesser degree. 
 
 He was not thinking of it now. It was when he was in the 
 presence of others, or when making up his mind to go into 
 their presence, that the defect was so painfully present to him. 
 As he sat there, his brow knit with its lines, two things were 
 troubling him : the one was a real, tangible care, the other 
 was only a perplexity. 
 
 His own mother had lived to bring him up ; and how she 
 had cherished and loved her unfortunate son, the only heir to 
 the broad lands of the St. Johns, that son's heart ached even 
 now to think of At the time she died, he wished he could 
 die also ; his happiest thoughts now were spent in her remem- 
 brance ; his most comforting moments those when he lost him- 
 self in .the anticipation of the meeting that awaited them 
 hereafter. He was a grown-up man, getting old it almost 
 seemed to his lonely heart, when the little half-brother w^as 
 born, the only issue of his father's second marriage. How 
 Isaac St. John took to this little baby, loved it, fondled it, 
 played with it, he might have been half ashamed to tell in 
 words. The boy had been his ; as his own ; since the death 
 of their father, he had been his sole care ; and now that boy, 
 grown to manhood, was going the way of the world and bring- 
 ing trouble into his home. No very great and irremediable 
 trouble yet : but enough to pain and worry the sensitive heart 
 that so loved him.
 
 io6 ST. MARTIN'S EVE, 
 
 As if to compensate for the malformation of the one brother, 
 the other was gifted with ahiiost surpassing beauty. The good 
 looks of Frederick St. John had become a proverb in the gay 
 world. But these favoured sons of men are beset by tempta- 
 tions in an unusual degree, and perhaps they may not be much 
 the better for the beauty in the long-run. Had Frederick St. 
 John been less high-principled by nature; or been less carefully 
 ^\\(k prayerfully trained by his brother Isaac, things might have 
 been a great deal worse with him than they were. He had not 
 parted with honour, but he had parted with money ; a hand- 
 some patrimony which he had succeeded to when he became 
 of age, was mortgaged thick and threefold, and Mr. Frederick 
 Avas deep in debt and embarrassment. 
 
 Mr. St. John glanced towards some letters lying on his table. 
 The letters had brought the trouble to him. It would seem as 
 if Frederick's affairs had in some way come to a sudden crisis, 
 for these letters, three of them, had all arrived in the course of 
 the past week. They were ugly letters from ugly creditors 
 asking him to pay them ; and until their reception Mr. St. John 
 had not possessed any knowledge of the state of affairs. He 
 had believed Frederick to be in the habit of getting rid of a 
 great deal more money than he had need to do; but he had 
 not glanced at debt, or embarrassment. It had so completely 
 upset him — a little thing did that in his delicate health — that 
 for a day and a night he was incapable of action ; he could 
 only nurse his pain. Then he sent answers to the parties, 
 saying that the matters should be examined into; and he wrote 
 to Frederick, who was in London, to come to him without 
 delay. He was waiting for him ; the senses of his ears were 
 opened now, listening for his footsteps; he was growing anxious 
 and wearys for Frederick might have responded to the call on 
 the past day. 
 
 That was the trouble. The other care mentioned, the per- 
 plexity, regarded his little cousin at Alnwick. He had pro- 
 mised George Carleton St. John (as you may remember) to 
 take means of ascertaining whether Benja was well done by, 
 happy, and cared for by his step-mother ; but now that it came 
 to action, Isaac St. John did not quite see how he was to set 
 about it. Something he must do ; for the promise lay on his 
 conscience : and he was, of all men, the most conscientious. 
 Mr. Carleton St. John had died in May ; it was now Sep- 
 tember; and Isaac knew little or nothing of the affairs at
 
 GEORGINA BEAUCLERC'S LOVE. 107 
 
 Alnwick. He had corresponded a little with Mrs. Carleton 
 St. John in the intervals of his own illness — for he had been 
 seriously ill twice this summer; at the time of the death, and 
 for some time after it, and again in July — and he had addressed 
 two letters to Benja, simple letters fit for a child, and desired 
 that that young gentleman would answer him by deputy. Some- 
 body had scrawled these answers, probably the nurse, or guided 
 Benja's fingers to do it. " He was very well, and Brave was 
 very well, and he thanked his gardian, Mr. Saint John, for 
 writeing to him, and he hopped he was very well, and he sent 
 his love." This did not tell Mr. St. John much : and the in- 
 voluntary thought crossed him that had Benja been her own 
 child Mrs. St. John might herself have helped him with the 
 answers. 
 
 He had therefore been making up his mind to go over to 
 Alnwick, much as he disliked to show himself amidst strangers. 
 But for this news concerning Frederick which had so troubled 
 him, and the expected arrival of his brother, he would have 
 been already away ; but now he had put it off for a day or two. 
 This was Tuesday; and he thought, if all went well, and 
 Frederick came to-day, he should go on Thursday. It was 
 not the loss of the money that brought care to Isaac St. John ; 
 his coffers were deep ; but the great fear that this young man, 
 dear to him as ever son could be to father, might be falling 
 into evil. 
 
 He was aroused from thought by the entrance of his atten- 
 dant, Mr. Brumm. The master of Castle Wafer looked up 
 wistfully : he had thought it might be another entering. 
 
 " Will you have luncheon brought in here to-day, sir, or take 
 it with Mrs. St. John and Lady Anne ? " 
 
 "Oh, I don't know" — and the sweet voice bore its sound of 
 weariness. " I will take it with them to-day, I think, Brumm : 
 they say I neglect them. Is it one o'clock ? " 
 
 " Hard upon it, sir." 
 
 Mr. St. John rose. Ah, how changed from the delicate-faced 
 man whose defects of form had been hidden ! The hump was 
 all too conspicuous now. 
 
 Passing out of the room, he crossed the inner hall, so beauti- 
 ful with its soft rose-coloured hues, its tesselated pavement, and 
 opened a door on the other side, where luncheon was laid. 
 Two ladies entered almost at the same moment. The one was 
 a tall, fine, still elegant woman, not much older than Mr. St.
 
 lo8 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 John himself, though she stood to him in the relation of step- 
 mother; the other was an orphan daughter of the highest 
 branch of the St. John family, the Lady Anne : a nice-looking 
 girl of two or three and twenty, with dark-brown eyes and a 
 pointed chin. Castle Wafer belonged exclusively to Isaac St. 
 John ; but his step-mother frequently resided at it. The utmost 
 good-feeling and courtesy existed between them ; and Frederick, 
 her only son, and his half-brother, Avas the link that drew them 
 together. Mrs. St. John never stayed there in the character of 
 visitor : Isaac would not allow it : but as its undisputed mistress. 
 At these times, however, he lived a good deal in his own rooms. 
 She had been there about a month now, and had brought with 
 her this young cousin, Lady Anne, It had been a cherished 
 project in the St. John family, that Lady Anne St. John should 
 become the wife of Frederick. All wished it. The relatives on 
 both sides wished it : they were several degrees removed from 
 each other in relationship, she was an heiress, he would inherit 
 Castle Wafer : altogether it was very suitable. But the parties 
 themselves — were they anxious for the tie? Ah, less was known 
 about that. 
 
 Mrs. St. John gave an exclamation of pleasure, for the sight 
 of her step-son amidst them was somewhat rare. He shook 
 hands with her, and then Anne St. John came merrily up to 
 be kissed. She was very fond of Isaac, and he of her. Nearly 
 the only friend he had had in life, as these men of rare minds 
 count friendship, had been the earl, Anne's father. 
 
 " Mrs. St. John," he said, as they were at table, Brumm alone 
 being in the room in attendance on his master, for sometimes 
 the merest trifle of exertion, even the lifting of a plate, the 
 filling of a glass, was a trouble to Isaac, "will you believe that 
 I am contemplating a journey? " 
 
 "A journey ! You, Isaac !" exclaimed Lady Anne. "Is it 
 a drive round the farm in your low carriage ? " 
 
 " It is a longer journey than that. It will take me five or six 
 hours' hard posting, with good roads and four good horses." 
 
 " Oh, Isaac ! How can you continue to travel post when 
 you can take the railway ? " 
 
 " I do not like the railway," said Isaac, quietly. 
 
 "Well, I hope you will find relays. I thought all the old 
 posting horses were dead and buried." 
 
 " I have not found any difficulty yet, Anne. Brumm sends 
 on to secure them."
 
 GEORGINA BEAUCLERC'S LOVE. 109 
 
 " But where are you going, Isaac ? " asked Mrs. St. John. 
 
 " To Ahiwick. I think I ought to go," continued Isaac, 
 speaking in his grave, earnest, thoughtful manner. " Poor 
 George left his boy partly in my charge, as you know ; hut 
 what with ill-health, and my propensity to shut myself up, 
 which gets harder to break through every year, I have allowed 
 too long a time to elapse without seeing him. It has begun to 
 lie upon my conscience : and whenever a thing does that, I 
 can't rest until I take steps to remedy it." 
 
 "The little boy is in his own home with his mother," 
 observed Mrs. St. John. "He is sure to be all right." 
 
 "I do not fear that he is not. I should be very much sur- 
 prised to find that he is not. But that probable fact does not 
 remove from me the responsibility of ascertaining it. I think 
 I shall go on Thursday, and return on Friday." 
 
 " How dull we shall be without you," said Lady Anne. 
 
 Mr. St. John smiled, and raised his soft dark eyes to hers. 
 The fingers of one thin hand had been wandering amidst the 
 crumbs of his bread, putting them into circles or squares : a 
 habit of his when he talked at table, though perhaps an un- 
 conscious one. He did not eat much, and had generally 
 finished long before others. 
 
 " I hope, Anne, you and Mrs. St. John will have some one 
 here by Thursday, who will be a more effectual remedy for 
 dulness than I could be at my best. Mrs. St, John, I am ex- 
 pecting Frederick." 
 
 " Oh ! " The mother's heart leaped within her ; the bright 
 flush of expectancy rose to her cheek ; a fair and soft cheek 
 still, for all her fifty years. " When ? " 
 
 " I hope he will be here to-day. I think he may even have 
 come by this morning's train. I wish to see him on a little 
 matter of business, and have written to him to come down. 
 Are you glad, Anne ? " 
 
 "I am more glad than I can tell you," was the warm, eager 
 answer. " I wish he could be here always." 
 
 Ah, Isaac St. John, why that inward glow of satisfaction at 
 the words ? Are you so little skilled in the signs of love as not 
 to read them more correctly ? Don't you know that if there 
 were any love, of the sort you have been hoping, in that fair 
 girl's heart, she would go by the rules of contrary, and protest 
 that it was a matter of perfect indifference to her whether Mr. 
 Frederick came or not? There is no blush on her cheek;
 
 IIO ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 there is no faltering in her tone : wliy should you deceive 
 yourself? 
 
 The surmise was correct : Frederick St. John had come 
 down by the morning's express train. You may see him as he 
 walks out of the station at Lexington : it is that tall, slender, 
 aristocratic man, with dark hair, pale refined features, and eyes 
 of tlie deepest blue. The people at the station touch their hats 
 to him and smile a greeting, and he smiles and nods at them in 
 return, kindly, genially, as if he really thanked them for their 
 welcome. There was neither heartlessness nor hypocrisy in 
 Frederick St. John : he was a true gentleman at heart. 
 
 " Would you like a fly, sir ? I don't see any carriage come 
 down for you." 
 
 " No, thank you, Williams. I prefer walking such a day as 
 this. Is Mr. St. John well, do you happen to know ? " 
 
 " As well as usual, I think, sir," was the man's reply, who 
 drove his own fly. " He walked through the fields to church 
 on Sunday. The ladies came in the basket-carriage." 
 
 " What a fine harvest you have had ! " 
 
 " Beautiful, sir. Couldn't be better. My little stock of 
 corn never was finer." 
 
 " By the way, Williams. I had a portmanteau somewhere in 
 the train : the guard put it out, I suppose. You can bring it 
 up if you like." 
 
 " Thank you, sir." 
 
 Frederick St. John walked on. Striking into a path on the 
 left, he continued his way through the fields, and came in due 
 course to the back of the Rectory. From thence the way was 
 through the cultivated grounds, the lovely gardens of Castle 
 Wafer : the whole way being not much more than a mile and 
 a half. By the highway it was a good deal longer. 
 
 Seated under a projecting rock, a sketch-book and pencils 
 lying beside her, was one of the fairest girls ever seen. She 
 was reading. Going out to sketch, that mellow day, she had 
 yielded to idleness (as she often did), and was passing the 
 time in reading, instead of working. She was the Dean of 
 Westerbury's niece, Sarah Beauclerc : and the dean was wont 
 to tell her that she should not take a book with her when she 
 went out to sketch. It might come to the same thing, so far 
 as working went, she would answer in her independence : if 
 she did not read, she might only sit and dream. But the dean 
 was not at the Rectory just now : only his wife, daughter, and
 
 GEORGINA BEAUCLERC'S LOVE. ill 
 
 niece. This young lady's home had been with tjiem since the 
 deatli of her motlier, the Lady Sarah Beauclerc : her father 
 was in India. 
 
 The soft bloom mantled in Sarah Beauclerc's cheeks when 
 she saw who had turned the corner and was upon her. His 
 appearance took her by surprise : neither she nor any one else 
 had known that he was coming. She put down her book and 
 was about to rise : but he laid his hand upon her and sat 
 down on the bench beside her. He kept her hand in his ; he 
 saw the blushes on her cheeks ; and that her eyes fell beneath 
 the gaze of his own. 
 
 But the liking between them was not destined to go on to 
 love : though indeed on her part, and perhaps also on his, the 
 feeling had been very like love once. In her behaviour to 
 him she had been a finished coquette : he set it down to 
 caprice, to a want of real affection for him ; in reality it grew 
 out of her love. She believed that, come what would, he was 
 to marry Lady Anne St. John ; she believed that he accepted 
 the destiny, though he might not be unwilling to amuse himself 
 before he entered on it : and, one moment she had been gentle, 
 tender, yielding, in obedience to her secret love ; the next she 
 would be cold, repelling, the very essence of scorn. This had 
 partially worked his cure : but in a meeting like the present, 
 coming suddenly upon her in all her beauty, the old feelings 
 would rise again in his heart. Ah ! how different might things 
 have been in this life for one other woman, had Sarah Beau- 
 clerc only known the real state of affairs between him and 
 Lady Anne ! 
 
 But she still retained enough of the past feeling to be con- 
 fused — confused in manner as in mind. She put questions as 
 tb his unexpected appearance, not hearing one syllable of the 
 answers ; and Frederick St. John detected the secret joy, and 
 his voice grew more low and tender as he bent over her, and a 
 smile, than which earth could possess nothing sweeter, sat on 
 his lips. Perhaps even now, had he remained at Castle Wafer 
 — but of what use speculating upon what might have been? 
 
 " I think you are glad to see me, Sarah." 
 
 One flash of answering avowal, and then the lovely con- 
 sciousness on the face faded, the light of love died out of it ; 
 it grew hard, satirical, half angry. That she sl^ould so have 
 betrayed herself ! She raised her head, and looked out straight 
 before her from the depths of her cold light-blue eyes.
 
 112 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " We are glad to see any one in this lonely desert, where 
 the only gentleman of degree is Mr. St. John. Not but that 
 I would rather see him than many others. Did you leave 
 London this morning ? " 
 
 Frederick St. John dropped the hand and rose. 
 
 " I shall never understand you, Sarah. Yes, I left it this 
 morning. Where's Georgina? She will be glad to welcome 
 me, if you are not." 
 
 "There's one will be glad to welcome you at Castle Wafer," 
 she rejoined, laughing now, but the laugh sounded cold and 
 cheerless. " Lady Anne has been wishing for you for some 
 time." 
 
 *' Yes, I think she has. I must go on now. I shall see you 
 again, no doubt, by-and-by." 
 
 He hastened on his way, utterly unconscious that a pair of 
 eyes, more lovely than those he had been gazing on, behind 
 the grove of trees, had been unintentional witnesses to the 
 interview. Georgina Beauclerc had been strolling about when 
 she saw his approach through the trees. She was the dean's 
 daughter — a lithe, active girl of middle height with a pleasing, 
 piquant, rather saucy face, these wide-open grey-blue eyes, 
 light-brown hair, and a healthy blood mantling under the sun- 
 burnt skin of the dimpled cheeks — a daring, wild, independent 
 young lady, but one all truth and ingenuousness ; and that is 
 saying a very great deal in these days of most detestable arti- 
 ficialty. Georgina had no end of faults, but Dr. Beauclerc 
 knew her heart, and he would not have exchanged his daughter 
 for any girl in the world. 
 
 She, Georgina Beauclerc, had looked on from between the 
 trees, all her veins throbbing, her pulses beating. A stronger, 
 a purer, a more enduring love never made glad the heart of 
 woman, than this one that filled Georgina Beauclerc's for 
 Frederick St. John. To hear his step was rapture ; to touch 
 his hand was as a ray of that unforgiven fire " filched for us 
 from heaven >" to see him thus unexpectedly was as if the 
 whole earth had become suddenly flooded with a brilliant, 
 rose-coloured light. But, even as she watched that other 
 meeting with her cousin, the sharp pain — often enough felt 
 there before — seized her heart, the loving light faded from her 
 face, and her lips paled with anguish. Of keen, discerning 
 faculties, she had seen all along that it was not from Lady 
 Anne danger was to be feared, but from Sarah herself. A
 
 GEORGINA BEAUCLERC'S LOVE. 113 
 
 faint, low cry, as of a bird in pain, escaped her as she watched 
 the meeting, and drank in its signs. 
 
 Did anything in the world ever run so crookedly as this 
 course of love ? Every one — uncles, aunts, guardians — wanted 
 Frederick St. John to wed Lady Anne. Frederick did not 
 want to marry her at all ; did not intend to marry her ; and 
 she, on her part, hoped to marry some one else. But that was 
 a secret not yet to be breathed to the world ; Frederick alone 
 shared it ; and if things came to a crisis he intended to take 
 on himself the whole onus of declining the match, and so 
 spare Anne. They understood each other perfectly ; and that 
 is more than can be said for any other two actors in our story. 
 Nothing so very crooked there, you will say ; but look a little 
 further. Georgina loved Frederick St. John with her whole 
 heart ; and he never gave a thought to her. He must have 
 known of her love ; there had been things to reveal it to 
 him — trifles in the past ; but he passed her by, and felt all too 
 inclined to give his love to her cousin. She, Sarah, could 
 have made him her heart's resting-place, ah ! how willingly ! 
 but her head was filled ever with Lady Anne, and she met his 
 incipient love with scorn. It was curing him, as I have told 
 you ; but if the whole truth could have been laid bare, the 
 lives of some of them would have been widely different. 
 
 Georgina was obliged to come forth from her hiding-place, 
 for his path lay through the shrubbery, and he must have seen 
 her. Her colour went and came fitfully as she held out her 
 hand ; her bosom heaved beneath the thin summer dress, a 
 flowing robe of musUn, adorned with blue ribbons. Her large 
 straw hat was hanging from her arm ; and she began to talk 
 freely and wildly — anything to cover her agitation. Their 
 intercourse was familiar as that of brother and sister, for they 
 had been intimate from childhood. 
 
 " Well, Georgie ! In the wars as usual, I see, amidst the 
 brambles." 
 
 He pointed to her robe, and she caught it up ; a long 
 bramble was trailing to it. 
 
 " It is your fault, sir. Hearing a strange voice, I came 
 through the thorns to see who might be the intruder. What a 
 strange, flighty way you have got into ! Coming down by fits 
 and starts, when no one expects you ! We heard you were off 
 to Finland, or some other of those agreeable spots. You'll 
 frighten Castle Wafer into fits." 
 
 St. Mai tin's Eve. 8
 
 114 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Wrong, young lady. Castle Wafer sent for me." 
 
 " That's one of your stories," politely returned Georgina. " I 
 was at Castle Wafer after breakfast this morning, and Mrs. St. 
 John was regretting that you did not come down this autumn ; 
 some one else also, I think, though she did not say it." 
 
 He looked down at her as she spoke. There were times 
 when he thought she divined the truth as regarded himself and 
 Lady Anne St. John. 
 
 " / wonder," she continued, " that you have kept away so 
 long." 
 
 "How is the dean?" 
 
 " He is not here — only mamma. Tell me ; what has brought 
 you down ? " 
 
 " I have told you. I was sent for." 
 
 '' By " 
 
 " Isaac. You are as curious as ever, Georgina. But now, 
 can you tell me why I am sent for ; for that is a puzzle to me. 
 I fear " 
 
 He stopped suddenly. Miss Beauclerc raised her eyes to his 
 face. There was a shade of uneasiness in his tones, as if he 
 were ill at ease. 
 
 "I know nothing about it," she answered, earnestly. "I 
 did not even know you were sent for. I would tell you if I did 
 know." 
 
 He nodded an acknowledgment, courteously enough, but 
 very abstractedly, as if he thought little of Georgina or of any- 
 thing she could tell him, and walked on alone, never once 
 lookmg back. She leaned her forehead against a tree, and 
 gazed after liim \ her wild love shining forth from her yearning 
 blue eyes ; her whole heart longing to call after him ere he 
 should be quite beyond view, and the day's sunshine have 
 gone out in darkness : " Oh, stay Avith me, my love ! stay 
 with me ! " 
 
 He went on to the house, straight into the presence of Isaac, 
 who was then in his own room, and learnt why he had been 
 summoned. That his embarrassments would, of necessity, 
 become known to his brother some time, he had entertained 
 no shadow of doubt; but he was one of those high-bred, 
 honourable men who look upon debt as little less than crime ; 
 and now that the moment had come, it brought him terrible 
 mortification. 
 
 " I have no excuse to offer," he said. " But do not think
 
 GEORGINA BEAUCLERC'S LOVE. 115 
 
 worse of me than you can help. Not one shiUhig of it has gone 
 in dishonour." 
 
 That he spoke the truth Isaac knew, and his heart went out 
 to him — him whom he had ever loved as a son. 
 
 " I will set you straight, only be more cautious in future," he 
 said, never speaking, in his generosity, one word of reproach. 
 " And, Frederick, this had better be kept from your mother. It 
 would pain her, and perhaps alarm Anne. Don't you think it 
 is time you married ? There's nothing to wait for. I'm sure — 
 I fancy at least — that Anne is ready. " 
 
 And Frederick St. John, bound by a promise to Lady Anne, 
 did not speak out openly, as he might have done, but evaded 
 the question. 
 
 On the following Thursday, in the long, low room at the 
 Rectory, its windows opening to the lawn, sat Sarah Beauclerc, 
 practising a piece of difficult music. She and her cousin were 
 contrasts. The one, cold, calm, calculating, did things by rule ; 
 the other did all by impulse, and could not be cold if she tried. 
 Sarah was the least in the world artificial ; Georgina was too 
 natural. 
 
 Mrs. Beauclerc, thin and discontented-looking as of yore, the 
 red tip of her nose growing redder year by year, sat at the 
 French window of the room, talking to Georgina. Georgina, in 
 a clear pink muslin dress, with open lace sleeves on her pretty 
 wrists, stood just outside the window. She was partly listening 
 to her mother, — as much as she ever did listen to Mrs. Beau- 
 clerc's grumblings, — partly humming to herself the piece that 
 Sarah was playing, as her eyes wandered wistfully, far far out in 
 the distance, seeking one who did not come. 
 
 " What are you looking at ? " Mrs. Beauclerc suddenly asked 
 in sharp tones. "You never pay attention to me, Georgina." 
 
 "I thought — I thought — " and though the answer was given 
 with hesitation, she spoke the straightforward truth — " I thought 
 I saw Frederick St. John. Some one was there, but he has 
 turned away again, whoever it was. ^Vhat do you want to say, 
 mamma ? " 
 
 " Mrs. St. John and Anne partly promised to come in and 
 dine with us, sajis chrjiiouie, this evening. I want you to go 
 and ask them whether they are really coming." 
 
 She stepped gaily over the threshold into the room, all her 
 inertness gone. The short secluded walk through tlie private
 
 Ii6 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 grounds would be charming enough on that warm autumn day; 
 but had it been one of stones and brambles, Georgina had 
 deemed it Eden, with the prospect of /lis presence at the end 
 of it. She halted for a moment to ask a question ; to ask it 
 indifferently, as if it were of no moment to her, and she tossed 
 her handkerchief carelessly about as she spoke it." 
 
 " Is Frederick to come with them ? " 
 
 " Dear me, Georgina ! Is he to come ! He can come if he 
 likes." 
 
 Absorbed in her music, Sarah Beauclerc had heard nothing 
 of this. Georgina came in again with her bonnet on. " Sarah, 
 I am going up to Castle Wafer. Will you come?" 
 
 The light of assent shone all too eagerly for a moment in 
 Sarah's eyes; but she recollected her resolution — to forget — and 
 declined. 
 
 " Not this morning." 
 
 "Very well," said Georgina. "Don't say I didn't ask you. 
 You said so once before, if you remember, Sarah, and a great 
 passion you were in." 
 
 Sarah Beauclerc's lip curled. " I don't think I was ever in a 
 passion in my life. It is only the uncontrolled, the ill-regulated, 
 who so forget themselves." 
 
 " I would rather go into a good hearty passion and get it over, 
 than be cold as an icicle. What a passion I once put Fred St. 
 John into ! " added Georgina, half losing herself in the remem- 
 brance. " Ife can be passionate, if you like ! " 
 
 "I don't believe it." 
 
 " Z)/V-believe it, then," equably returned Georgina. " I have 
 seen him in more rages than one. It's not a thing to forget, I 
 can tell you. He is sweet-tempered in ordinary life ; ay, very ; 
 but on rare occasions he can be roused. Ask Mrs. St. John ; 
 ask Anne." 
 
 She stepped out from the window, nodding to Mrs. Beauclerc, 
 who was now at a distance bending over her favourite flower- 
 bed, and pursued her walk. 
 
 Suddenly a butterfly crossed her path ; she was then getting 
 near to Castle Wafer. It was one of those beautiful insects, its 
 wings purple and gold ; and Georgina, no better than a butter- 
 fly herself and variable as one, began to give chase to it. In 
 turning suddenly the corner of a hedge of variegated evergreens, 
 she came upon a stranger. 
 
 Springing back as one startled, her heart beat a shade quicker.
 
 GEORGINA BEAUCLERC'S LOVE. T17 
 
 Not that there was anything particularly to startle her, except 
 that he was unknown, and that he stood in a stealthy attitude. 
 He wore a rather remarkable hat, inasmuch as its crown was 
 higher than those of ordinary hats and went tapering off in 
 sugar-loaf fashion ; his clothes were shabby-genteel. Altogether 
 he put Georgina in mind of the portrait of Mephistopheles, as 
 represented on the cover of one of her pieces of music. 
 
 He had been bending forward, peering through the trees at 
 Castle Wafer; the position he held commanded full view of 
 the front of the house. But he appeared equally startled with 
 Miss Beauclerc, at being interrupted, glided away, and was lost 
 to view. 
 
 " What a strange-looking man ! " exclaimed Georgina. " And 
 what was he doing there ? Perhaps wanting to take a photo- 
 graph of Castle Wafer ! That tall hat must have been the one 
 I saw from our house." 
 
 She emerged from the sheltered path, crossed the lawn, 
 stepped over the terrace, and into the drawing-room. The 
 families were too intimate to stand on any sort of ceremony 
 with each other, and as frequently entered each other's houses 
 in this manner as by the more formal doorway. The room 
 was empty, but almost immediately Frederick St. John came 
 into it. 
 
 His eye fell upon her for a moment only, and she caught the 
 half-wistful, half-eager glance that went roaming round in search 
 of another. 
 
 "Are you alone?" he asked, as he shook hands with her. 
 
 " Sarah is not with me," was the petulant answer. It was 
 utterly impossible to Georgina Beauclerc not to betray her 
 moods : and none but herself knew how cruel was the pain 
 ever rankling in her heart. " But I did not come to pay a 
 visit to you," she went on pointedly. " Where's ]\Ir. St. John ? " 
 
 " He has gone out, and will not be back until to-morrow." 
 
 She had only asked the question in that listless fashion that 
 requires no answer. The answer, however, aroused her surprise. 
 Isaac St. John gone out until to-morrow ! 
 
 " He left this morning for Alnwick," said Frederick. " He 
 has gone to see his little ward, Benju St. John. A long 
 journey, for he is posting. Did you want him, Georgina ? " 
 
 "No; I came to see Mrs. St. John. Mamma supposes she 
 and Anne remember their engagement to come in this after- 
 noon and remain to dinner. Will you come also?"
 
 Ii8 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Is it a dinner-party ? 
 
 " A dinner-party here ! Don't expect that. You may find 
 nothing but mutton," she added, with a laugh. " It's ourselves 
 only. Will you come ? " 
 
 " I think not, Georgie. Perhaps, though : I'll see between 
 now and dinner-time." 
 
 He stepped out without further word or look. Ah, it needed 
 not his coldness of manner to convince Georgina Beauclerc 
 how utterly indifferent she was to him ! Lady Anne came in, 
 and she began laughing and talking as though there were not 
 such a thing as misplaced love in the world. In a few minutes 
 Georgina left again, bearing Mrs. St. John's message of accept- 
 ance of the invitation. As she was walking leisurely along she 
 caught sight of Frederick in the distance. He was standing still, 
 apparently examining something in his hand. Georgina's quick 
 thought wondered whether it was the beautiful butterfly of 
 purple and gold. Suddenly, in this same moment, as she looked, 
 she saw the strange man go rather swiftly up to him and touch 
 him on the shoulder. 
 
 She saw Frederick St. John wheel round ; she saw him fling 
 the man's arm off" with a haughty gesture. And after a few 
 minutes' parleying, during which the man showed him a paper 
 —minutes of hesitation as it seemed, for Mr. St. John looked 
 about him as a man uncertain of his course — they finally 
 walked away together. Georgina went home wondering. 
 
 Mrs. St. John and Lady Anne came in about four o'clock, 
 bringing their work vv'ith them. Lady Anne was making a 
 collection of ferns, and she began doing something to a dried 
 leaf with water and a sponge. Mrs. St John and Mrs. Beau- 
 clerc were each knitting a soft woollen counterpane of divers 
 colours, and began comparing progress. 
 
 " Where's Frederick ? " asked Mrs. Beauclerc. " Is he not 
 coming ? " 
 
 " I don't know where he is," cried Mrs. St. John, in quick 
 tones and looking up, as though the question recalled some- 
 thing to her recollection. " We have seen nothing of him since 
 the morning, and just now I received a pencilled note from him, 
 saying he might not be in until to-night, or perhaps not at all, 
 if he found his business detained him very late." 
 
 " Has he gone to Lexington ? " 
 
 " We don't know where he has gone. But it is very strange 
 he should go out for any length of time, without mentioning it
 
 GEORGINA BEAUCLERC'S LOVE. 119 
 
 to me. The note was not dated, and the servants said a strange 
 boy brought it. So very thoughtless of Frederick, to go out 
 in this flighty manner ! Anne was dreaming of him this 
 afternoon." 
 
 " Dreaming of him ! " repeated Mrs. Beauclerc. 
 
 Lady Anne laughed. " Mrs. St. John insisted at the time 
 that I was dreaming," she said. " We drove out in the pony- 
 carriage after luncheon, and on passing the Barley Mow, I 
 could have declared that I saw Frederick at one of the upper 
 windows. But when we drew closer he had turned into a 
 strange man in a tall hat. I suppose I must have been 
 thinking of him, and so fancied it: or else the sun, which was 
 full in my face, caused the mistake. Georgina, what is the 
 matter ? " 
 
 It was time to ask. Georgina Beauclerc was standing as 
 one transfixed. She was as clever a girl at putting two and 
 two together as could well be found ; and the whole mystery 
 seemed to suddenly clear itself. Very rapidly she drew 
 her conclusions : Frederick St. John had been arrested for 
 debt, and the man was keeping him prisoner at the Barley 
 Mow ! 
 
 A mist gathered before her sight : her heart sank within her. 
 Georgina had long known that he was in some temporary 
 embarrassment ; it came to her knowledge through an in- 
 cautious word of his own ; and she had cherished the 
 knowledge as a secret link between them. But she had not 
 suspected tJiis, and it came upon her with a crushing fear. 
 
 She burst into laughter, for the question of Lady Anne re- 
 called her to herself, making some evasive excuse. She would 
 have died rather than betray him. 
 
 " I know," she said. " He has gone over to Lexington to 
 avoid dining with so many women. You could not expect liim 
 to stay for us, Mrs. St. John." 
 
 "Very true, my dear; the same thought had occurred to 
 me," was tlie satisfied answer. " But I don't see why he should 
 hint at not coming home to sleep." 
 
 " There may be a thousand things to detain him," said 
 Georgina, throwing back her pretty head, as if to cool the 
 fever crimsoning her cheeks. "And who knows but he may 
 have gone on to Sir John Ingram's? I made him so mad one 
 day last year, teasing him about that gawky Jane Ingram ! 
 IVIamma nearly boxed my ears for it."
 
 120 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Watching her opportunity, Georgina stole away, snatched 
 her hat and a garden mantle from the peg in the hall, and went 
 out. Where was she going, this wild girl ? Need you ask ? 
 In her impulsive, free, careless fashion, she was hastening to 
 the Barley Mow, to see Frederick St. John. 
 
 It sounds very bad, no doubt to the reader's ears. The 
 name of the " Barley Mow " itself would be enough to alarm 
 modest people, without the gentleman. But in this quiet little 
 spot, the Barley Mow was as sedate and respectable a house 
 to enter as any private one ; and Georgina had many a time 
 gone into it with Dr. Beauclerc to sit ten minutes with one of 
 its daughters, who had been an invalid for years. 
 
 She went flying onwards, and gained the door in a few 
 minutes. The landlord, a respectable, simple old yeoman, in 
 a yellow waistcoat and top-boots, who was a farmer as well as 
 an innkeeper, met her at the entrance. 
 
 " Mary ain't quite so well, miss," he began, more hastily than 
 he was in the habit of speaking. " She's lying down. I'm 
 afeared I can't ask you to go up this afternoon." 
 
 " I have not come to see her," returned Georgina, ignoring 
 ceremony. " Is Mr. Frederick St. John here ? " 
 
 The man seemed taken back. He might not admit it ; he 
 could not conscientiously deny it ; and he only stared by way 
 of answer. 
 
 " I know he is here," said Georgina. " You need not 
 hesitate." 
 
 "Well, miss, he is here, and that's the truth. But I mightn't 
 say it." 
 
 " I want to see him," she continued, walking into the 
 family parlour, then vacant. " Ask him to come to me." 
 
 It appeared that he could not come without his attendant in 
 the curious hat, for when Mr. St. John, who came down imme- 
 diately, entered the room, that gentleman's hat and head 
 appeared over his shoulder. Very haughtily Mr. St, John 
 waved him off, and closed the door to shut him out. 
 
 " Georgina, what brings you here ? " 
 
 " How did it happen ? " she asked eagerly. " Are you really 
 arrested ? " 
 
 " Really and truly," he said, speaking in a tone of hauteur 
 that perhaps veiled a feeling of bitter mortification. " The 
 marvel does not lie in that, but in how you came to know 
 of it."
 
 GEORGINA BEAUCLERCS LOVE. 121 
 
 " I guessed it," said Georgina. 
 
 " Guessed it ! " 
 
 She quietly told him the whole from the beginning : her 
 meeting with the man in the morning, the news Mrs. St. 
 John brought about the note, the fancied view of Lady Anne. 
 
 " The truth seemed to come over me in a moment," she 
 concluded. " I knev/ you were arrested ; I was sure it was 
 nothing else. And I ran all the way here to ask if I can do 
 anything for you. I saw by the note that you dare not tell 
 Mrs. St. John." 
 
 " Dare is not quite the word, Georgina. If I can spare her 
 I will do so, for I know it would grieve her cruelly. The 
 affair would not have been the trouble of a quarter-of-an-hour, 
 but for Isaac's being away. Things always do happen by 
 contraries." 
 
 " You think he would — he would — what could he have 
 done?" she asked, her anxious face and its earnest eyes turned 
 up to him. 
 
 " He would have paid the claim and set me free. As it is, 
 nothing can be done until he comes home to-morrow." 
 
 " How much is the claim ? " 
 
 Frederick St. John drew in his lips. " It is amidst the 
 hundreds. Nay, how scared you look ! It was a clever trick, 
 their sending the fellow down here after me." 
 
 "Who is he?" asked Georgina, lowering her voice, with an 
 instinctive conviction that the individual in question was rather 
 near the outside of the door. 
 
 " He's nobody," was the reply. " But, neverthless, he is 
 master of me just now, by virtue of the law. He considers 
 himself a model of consideration and benevolence, and will 
 expect me to acknowledge it substantially : otherwise he would 
 have taken me off pretty quickly." 
 
 " Where to ? " 
 
 "To— it is an ugly word, Georgina — prison." 
 
 " Oh ! But you will stop that, won't you ? " 
 
 " Isaac will. The annoying part of the business is, that he 
 should be away just this day of all days. It is rather singular, 
 too, considering that he is at home from year's end to year's 
 end. There's no help for it, however, and here I must stop 
 until he does return, hiding myself like a mouse, lest I should 
 be seen, and the news carried to my mother." 
 
 " Can't I help you ? — can't I do anything for you ? "
 
 122 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Thank you always, Georgina. You are a good little girl, 
 after all. No, nothing." 
 
 She pouted her pretty lips. 
 
 " Except keep the secret. And go home again as soon as 
 possible. What would your mamma say if she knew you had 
 come ? " he asked. 
 
 " Scold me for a week. Will Mr. St. John be home early 
 to-morrow ? " 
 
 " I wish I knew. Any time, I suppose, from midday up to 
 night. \Ve must set some one to watch for him. He is post- 
 ing, and therefore goes and comes the upper road, not passing 
 here. I dare not send a note to Castle Wafer to await his 
 arrival, for my mother, seeing my handwriting, would inevit- 
 ably open it ; neither can I entrust the matter to any of the 
 servants to inform their master : they might make a mystery of 
 it, and so bring it in that way to the ears of my mother. Be- 
 sides, to tell the truth, I don't care that the servants should 
 know of it. Brumm alone would be safe, and he is with his 
 master." 
 
 " Entrust it to me," said Georgina, eagerly. '•' Let me 
 manage it for you. I will take care to tell Mr. St. John the 
 moment of his arrival. If I can't see him, I'll tell Brumm." 
 
 Mr. St. John paused a minute. The proposal certainly 
 solved a difficulty. 
 
 " But I don't like you to do this, Georgina," he said, follow- 
 ing out his thoughts. 
 
 " I 7i'/7/ do it," she answered, the colour mantUng to her 
 cheeks. " You can't prevent me now." 
 
 He smiled at her eagerness ; he saw how pleasant it was to 
 her to serve him. She laid her hand on the door to depart. 
 
 " Be it so, Georgina. I shall call you henceforth my friend 
 in need." 
 
 She opened the door quickly. On the opposite side of the 
 narrow passage, his back propped against the wall, a cautious 
 sentinel, stood the man. Mr. St. John saw him, closed his 
 lips on what he was about to say, and motioned her into the 
 room again. 
 
 -' You will not speak of this misfortune, Georgina, at your 
 own house ? Is it known there ? " he continued, a sudden fear 
 betraying itself in his voice. " Does Sarah know of it ? " 
 
 " And if she did," retorted Georgina, the old pain seizing 
 upon her heart again, " she does not know of it from me."
 
 THE FAIR AT ALNWICK. 123 
 
 Throwing back the door, she went straight out of the house, 
 running all the way home lest she should be missed, her brain 
 busy with the one thought. 
 
 " Sarah, Sarah ! It is all he cares for in hfe ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE FAIR AT ALNWICK. 
 
 In the long, straggling street, which chiefly comprised the 
 village of Alnwick, there was a break in the houses on the left- 
 hand side. This was filled up by the common, or waste land ; 
 it belonged to the lord of the manor, and no one might build 
 upon it. It was a wide, untidy piece of ground, branching off 
 into far-away corners and dells, which did very well for har- 
 bouring trampers and gipsies. Once a year, for three days in 
 September, this common was delivered over to all the bustle 
 and confusion of a fair. Shows and booths, containing (if 
 you could believe them) the wonders of the world, living and 
 dead ; caravans ; drinking-tents ; stalls for fruit, ginger- 
 bread, and penny trumpets; and here shoals of pleasure- 
 seekers reigned in triumph during those three days. Sober 
 shopkeepers, driven half wild with opposition drums and 
 horns, talked a great deal about " getting the nuisance done 
 away with ; " but the populace generally believed that no man 
 living could put the threat into execution, except the lord of 
 the manor : and he could only do it by refusing the use of the 
 ground. However that may have been, the ground had not 
 been refused yet, and the populace was triumphant. 
 
 It was a bright September day, and the fair was in full glory ; 
 as far as was consistent with the comparative quiet and re- 
 spectability of the first day. Things on that day were ordered 
 with a due regard to decorum : the music was kept within 
 bounds, the bawlin-g showmen were subdued and persuasive, 
 the ladies' dresses and dancing were gentility itself. For on 
 this first day the better families around would send their 
 children to the fair (some had been known to go to it them- 
 selves), and ladies'-maids and butlers congregated there in great 
 force. The second and third days were given over to what 
 these domestics called the riff-raff.
 
 124 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 The fair was in its full radiance on this fine September day. 
 Drums were beating, fifes were playing, pantaloons were 
 shouting, ladies were dancing, and rival showmen in scarlet 
 and gold tunics were shouting out their seductive attractions, 
 when two respectable-looking maid-servants, each in charge of 
 a little boy, might have been observed in the street, about to 
 enter the enchanted regions. The children were attired in black 
 velvet, trimmed with crape, and their straw hats had black 
 ribbon round them. The younger, a lovely child with a bright 
 complexion and a mass of fair curls, looked nearly three years 
 old ; the other was nearly five ; not a pretty child, but his 
 countenance one of noble intelligence. An insignificant little 
 fellow enough in years and stature, this elder one ; no one to 
 look at : and yet a great many people touched their hats to 
 him, child though he was, and that very fair was being held 
 upon his o\ra land ; for he was lord of the manor, and inheritor 
 of Alnwick. 
 
 Benja and George had been wild to set off to it. Indeed, 
 for a week beforehand, from the raising of the first plank for 
 the booths, it could hardly be said that either servants or 
 children for miles round were in their sedate senses. Prance, 
 however, was an exception. Prance seemed to have no affinity 
 with fairs ; and she had drawn in her thin lips in withering 
 contempt at Honour's open longing for it. There was no 
 more cordiality between the two servants than there used to be, 
 and a sharp quarrel would occur now and again, in which 
 Honour, as far as words went, had the best of it. Honour was 
 free-spoken ; there was no denying it. This fair had caused a 
 desperate quarrel that same morning. Honour said everything 
 she could to enhance its glories to the children ; Prance con- 
 tradicted every word, and protested it was not a fit place to 
 take them to. 
 
 Mrs. Carleton St. John favoured Honour in the matter, told 
 Prance she would not deprive the children of the shows for 
 anything, and finally ordered her to be quiet. George took his 
 nurse's part, and said Honour was a " nasty beast." Benja 
 retaliated that Prance was, and George struck him. Mrs. 
 Carleton St. John for once reproved George, and kissed and 
 soothed Benja. It was a curious thing, not noticed at the 
 time, but recalled by Honour in the future, that this little 
 graciousness on the part of her mistress, this displayed affection 
 for Benja, should have occurred on the day afterwards charac-
 
 THE FAIR AT ALNWICK. 125 
 
 terized by the unexpected visit of Mr. Isaac St. John. " As if it 
 had been on purpose ! " Honour was wont to repeat to herself 
 with a groan. However, all this partisanship for herself and 
 Benja only put her into a good humour at the time ; she could 
 not see the future ; and when they started, after an early 
 dinner. Honour was in a state of great delight, satisfied with 
 everything and every one. 
 
 Excepting, perhaps, with Prance. Prance showed no signs 
 whatever of her discomfiture, but followed to the fair with 
 George, impassive and silent as ever. As they were entering 
 the bustle, and the little legs already began to dance to the 
 drums, and the charmed eyes caught the first glimpse of the 
 spangles and all the other enchantments, a dusty travelling 
 carriage-and-four came bowling down the street, and stopped 
 at the Bell Inn, which was situated opposite to the common. 
 Such travelling equipages had become sufficiently rare to be 
 almost a curiosity in the county, and both the maids turned to 
 stare, utterly unsuspicious that it contained one who, as guar- 
 dian, had all power over the heir of Alnwick. 
 
 The first show they entered (on the principle of keeping the 
 best to the last) was a very sober sort of affair, and purporting 
 to be " An Emporium of Foreign Curiosities." The admission 
 was threepence, the trumpet was loud, and the showman was 
 magnificent both in person and persuasion. 
 
 " I shall go into this," said Honour. " I should think you 
 needn't be afraid of what you'd see inside," she added to 
 Prance in tones, it must be confessed, of aggravation. " There's 
 no dancing here." 
 
 Prance's only answer was to draw down the corners of her 
 thin lips and walk off with George to a leviathan booth whose 
 company were executing a complicated quadrille before it. 
 Honour paid her threepence, disputed with the money-taker 
 about admitting Benja for three-halfpence, that functionary 
 protesting that there was no half-price for gentlemen's children, 
 and went into the show. 
 
 Like many other shows, its interior did not realize the out- 
 ward promise. There was a crocodile in stone, and a few 
 more dead wonders, which Honour turned up her nose at, 
 saying something about demanding back her money : but 
 Benja's attention had become riveted by the pretty model of a 
 church rising from the midst of green moss. It was white, 
 and its coloured windows were ingeniously shown up by means
 
 126 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 of a light placed within it. It really was a pretty and con- 
 spicuous article in the dark- booth, and Benja could not be 
 moved from it. How little did Honour think that that sight 
 was to exercise so terrible an influence on the unconscious 
 child ! 
 
 " Come along," she said, rather impatiently. " I could make 
 you as good a one any day, Benja." 
 
 " How could you make it ? " promptly asked Benja. 
 
 " With white paper and thin strips of wood for the frame. 
 Master Benja, then ! we shall have Prance going home and 
 telling your mamma that we lost her on purpose. She's as 
 deceitful as yonder crocodile." 
 
 "Couldn't you buy it for me, Honour?" returned Benja, 
 not stirring a peg. 
 
 " Of course I couldn't," answered Honour. " What a little 
 simpleton you must be, to ask it ! The things here are not for 
 sale ; the folks get their living by showing them. And a fine 
 set of worthless rubbish it is ! Once for all, are you coming, 
 Master St. John ? " 
 
 "Will you promise to make me one?" persisted Benja, 
 
 "Yes, I will. There!" 
 
 " When ? " 
 
 " As soon as I can get the things together. Now come. 
 
 Benja reluctantly moved away ; but his head and eyes were 
 turned for the last glance, up to the moment when Honour 
 pulled him through the low green-baize opening. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Carleton St. John was sitting alone. She 
 was of remarkably quiet habits by inclination, a great stay-at- 
 home, rarely seeking society or amusement abroad ; and the 
 still recent death of her husband tended to keep the Hall 
 pretty free from idle visitors. One sole passion seemed to 
 absorb her whole life, to the exclusion of every other ; it filled 
 every crevice of her heart, it regulated her movements, it buried 
 even her natural grief for her husband — and this was love for 
 her child. The word love most inadequately expresses the 
 feeling : it was a passion, threatening to consume every healthy 
 impulse. She was quite aware of it : indeed, her conscience 
 did not allow her to be otherwise. 
 
 One thought was ever present to her ; it may be said that it 
 had never left her mind since the day her husband died : that 
 Benja was chief of Alnwick Hall, with all its wealth and 
 dignity ; that she, Charlotte St. John, so arrogant by nature.
 
 THE FAIR AT ALNWICK. 127 
 
 was there only on sufferance, a home accorded to her as his 
 personal guardian ; and that George was as nobody. They 
 were as a sharp thorn, these reflections, ever piercing her. 
 They ate into her ill-regulated heart and rankled there. And 
 they went on to another thought, an unwholesome thought, 
 which would have been a wicked thought but that it was not 
 there of her own will : a thought that carried danger in its 
 train. In the first waking of early morning, in the fevered 
 dreams of midnight solitude, in the glare and bustle of noon- 
 day, it was ever thrusting itself forward — if Benja were to die, 
 her child would be the inheritor, 
 
 "Was she aware of its danger ? No. And yet she was fond 
 of tracing it back to its original source — the accident to Benja. 
 When the boy was taken out of the water, drowned as was 
 supposed, and as some one called out, the wild beating of 
 ISIrs. St. John's bosom — not with sorrow — called into life the 
 thought that had certainly never existed there before, or else 
 had lain dormant. 
 
 Her increasing dislike of Benja should have acted as a 
 warning to her. It was generated by the false view she took 
 of the existing state of things : that Benja was a sort of ogre, 
 whose sole mission on earth was to stand in the light of her 
 child and deprive him of what might have been his birthright. 
 She strove against this dislike — it might be better to call it 
 hatred, for it had grown into that — and she had to exercise a 
 constant check upon herself in her behaviour towards him. 
 None but she knew what it cost her to treat Benja with a 
 semblance of love, or to make no very apparent difference 
 between the children. She did strive against it — let us do her 
 justice ! — not from any suspicion of danger, but from her own 
 sense of equity. That very morning, in taking Benja's part 
 and kissing him, she had acted from an impulse of good 
 principle, an endeavour to do right. But no sooner were the 
 children out of her sight, than the old bad feelings got the 
 better of her, and she sat indulging all sorts of foolish dreams 
 and visions of what she would do were Alnwick George's 
 instead of Benja's. Will you believe that she had fallen into 
 the habit of repeating their Christian names to herself, with the 
 prospective title before them ? " Sir Benjamin St. John," " Sir 
 George St. John ; " and she thought the one (you need not ask 
 which of the two) sounded a thousand times more charming 
 than the other.
 
 128 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Though very conscious of all this, she yet detected no 
 danger in it. The night of her husband's death, she made a 
 resolve to do her duty by her little step-son ; and when the 
 codicil to the will was read, giving Mr. St. John of Castle 
 Wafer the power to remove him from her, she resented it 
 bitterly as a mark of want of confidence in her shown by 
 her husband. No woman could have been more willing in 
 intention to do right by a step-son than Charlotte St. John. If 
 only her strength of will did not fail her, she might succeed. 
 One result of the desire to carry out her resolve, was retaining 
 Honour in her service. She very much disliked the girl, for 
 her strong attachment to Benja in contradistinction to George, 
 and her always taking "his part against that rather capricious 
 younger gentleman ; but she would not discharge her. To this 
 desire to do her duty, rather than because her husband in 
 dying had expressed a wish that Honour should be retained 
 about Benja, the girl owed the fact that she was still in her 
 place. Honour alone of the servants, save and except per- 
 haps Prance, had detected all along the second Mrs. St. John's 
 dislike to her little charge. Slie was aware, as surely as though 
 she had seen it recorded, that her mistress regarded George as 
 he who ought to be the heir, Benja as a usurper; and it 
 aroused within her a feeling of indignation, which sometimes 
 peeped out in her manner. Not sufficiently so for Mrs. St. 
 John openly to find fault with ; and she only thought the girl 
 quick in temper. And now I think I have said as much as I 
 can say about the state of mind of Mrs. Carleton St. John. 
 She deliberately intended to do right : but passion and pre- 
 judice are strong ; unusually strong were they in her ; and her 
 mind was undisciplined and ill-regulated. 
 
 As she sat there to-day, the approach of a vehicle in the 
 avenue attracted her attention. She soon saw that it was a fly 
 from the Bell Inn, and all her motherly fears were at once up 
 in arms, lest any accident had happened to Georgy, and he 
 was being brought home, or she fetched to him. But it 
 seemed to contain only one gentleman ; and he a stranger ; a 
 delicate-looking man, who sat low in the fly. 
 
 Not for a long time had she been so surprised as when the 
 card was brought to her, and she found that her visitor was 
 Mr. St. John of Castle Wafer. Had he come to remove Benja? 
 The thought awoke a momentary affection for the child in her 
 heart, and called up a resentful flush to her cheeks. But
 
 THE f^AIR AT ALNWICK. 129 
 
 resentment faded away as Isaac came in, and lield out his 
 hand to her in his open courtesy. She saw she had nothing 
 underhand to fear from him. 
 
 What was perhaps more agreeable to her, as it is to all vain 
 women — and Charlotte St. John was one of them — was the 
 look of honest admiration that shone out of Isaac's face and 
 manner. She presented a picture deeply interesting — in her 
 young widowhood, in her beauty, in her manner so quiet and 
 subdued. She burst into tears as they talked of her husband, 
 of Benja ; and she told Mr. St. John that if he removed Benja 
 from her it would break her heart. 
 
 It was only a figure of speech. And it is very probable that 
 the fact of two thousand a-year of her income being in peril, 
 may have swayed her to earnestness more than any other 
 feeling. Mr. St. John took it all for loving earnestness, and 
 assured her he thought no cause would ever be likely to arise 
 for his removing Benja. In point of fact, Isaac St. John was 
 most warmly impressed in her favour ; it was almost as if she 
 had fascinated him. 
 
 " Will you answer me a question ? " asked Mrs. St. John. 
 " I cannot get it solved by any one else. Why did my husband 
 leave this power in your hands ? Did he doubt me ? " 
 
 " I do not know why he left it," was the answer of Mr. St. 
 John : " unless he thought that you might be too kind to the 
 boy — might indulge him to his detriment. I remember, too, 
 his saying that you were not very strong, and the charge of the 
 two children might be a tax upon you." 
 
 She did not answer. She began to speak of more general 
 things, and Isaac St. John sat talking with her for some time. 
 She expressed her regret that Benja should happen to be at the 
 fair, and laughed when Mr. St. John spoke of the noise that 
 had assailed his ears from the drums. She pressed him to 
 take up his quarters at the Hall until the morrow, but this he 
 declined ; he was only an invalid at best, he said. He had 
 engaged rooms at the Bell for himself and his servant, and he 
 invited Benja to come and breakfast with him on the following 
 morning. Mrs. St. John readily assented to the invitation. 
 
 " You will allow his nurse to attend him," he said to her, as 
 he rose to leave. " I should like to see and converse with the 
 attendant of my little ward, and offer her a gratuity as an earnest 
 of my favour." 
 
 As readily as the other request was this acceded to, and 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. 9
 
 I30 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Mr. St. John departed, taking final leave of his cousin's widow — 
 for he intended to leave Alnwick soon after breakfast the 
 following morning. 
 
 The fly had conveyed him almost through the park on his 
 return to the Bell, when he saw two women-servants, in charge 
 of two children. Rightly guessing who they were, he stopped 
 the fly, opened the door, and talked to them from his seat. 
 
 A noble boy, his ward, with an open, intelligent countenance ; 
 a pretty little toy-boy the other, with his bright face, his fair 
 curls, and his indulged petulance peeping out even then. 
 The children were at home with him at once, showing him the 
 fairings they carried — one a child's kaleidoscope, the other 
 a drum. Benja told him some unintelligible story of a " church " 
 Honour was going to make for him ; Georgy sounded the 
 rataplan on his drum. He inquired of Honour whether she 
 was the nurse mentioned to him by her late master, who had 
 been with the child from his birth. Upon her saying she was, 
 he told her she was to be at the Bell with Master St. John the 
 next morning at nine o'clock ; he handed a sovereign to Prance ; 
 he won the boys' hearts by a promise of a whole cargo of 
 fairings to be sent up that evening; and then he drove on. 
 Not one of them had noticed his hump ; but they thought what 
 a little low gentleman he was in stature. 
 
 Benja had taken home a fairing for his mamma — a blue-and- 
 white smelling-bottle, flat as a half-crown, with a narrow neck 
 in which was a little cork as stopper. It had cost threepence, 
 and he kissed her as he gave it to her. George's fairing to his 
 mamma had been a Banbury cake, but he had unfortunately 
 eaten it on his way home. Whether the contrast touched her, 
 or that with Mr. St. John in the vicinity she did not choose to 
 be otherwise than loving, certain it was that she kissed Benja 
 heartily in return, praised his present as she put it into her 
 waistband, and told Georgy he was a selfish little fellow. 
 How gratified Honour was, and how, in manner, she crowed 
 over Prance, Prance would not condescend to observe. Mrs. 
 St. John was all graciousness, bade Honour make Master Benja 
 very nice indeed for the following morning, and said the pony- 
 carriage should take them down. 
 
 The appointment was kept. Benja was treated to jam and 
 other good things as he sat at breakfast with Mr. St. John — 
 Brumm and Honour waiting on them. Afterwards, when the 
 cloth was removed, Mr. Brumm had orders to take Master St,
 
 THE FAIR AT ALNWICK. 131 
 
 John to the fair and show him the elephant, or anything else 
 Mr. Brumm might deem expedient ; and Honour was requested 
 to take a seat wliile Mr. St. John talked to her. 
 
 He really saw no means of ascertaining whether Eenja was 
 well done by at the Hall, excepting this — the putting a direct 
 question to the nurse. After what he had seen of the Hall's 
 mistress the previous day, he would as soon suspect himself of 
 being ill treated, as any child over whom she had control. 
 Still it was as well to make sure upon the point. 
 
 Honour answered his questions as straightforwardly as she 
 could. But, it should be remarked, that in her present mood 
 of graciousness towards her mistress (or it should perhaps 
 rather be said of that lady's graciousness to her), she spoke 
 more favourably of Mrs. St. John than she would have done at 
 almost any previous time. She was not indulgent to JNIaster 
 Benja ; but on the other hand she was not generally unkind to 
 him, was the substance of her answer. 
 
 This rather surprised Mr. St. John. "I should have thought 
 her in danger of being too kind," he said. 
 
 Honour shook her head. " Mrs. St. John is too kind by a 
 great deal to her own child, sir ; she indulges him dreadfully ; 
 but there's no fear that she will ever do that by Master Benja." 
 
 "I suppose you do not mean to say that Mrs. St. John is 
 unkind to him ? " returned Mr. St. John, rather at a loss how to 
 frame his words with a due regard to what was due to the 
 dignity of that lady, when speaking of her to her servant. 
 
 " Well, no, sir, I can't say that she is unkind. She treats the 
 two very much alike, only that she is always kissing and clasping 
 the little one, and has him so much more with her. She boxed 
 Master Benja's ears the other day and made him cry. For no 
 fault, either, that I could find out." 
 
 ]\Ir. St. John smiled. "A little wholesome correction is 
 good for boys, you know." 
 
 " I'm not saying that it isn't, sir. Altogether, things have 
 gone on much more comfortably since my master's death 
 than I used to fancy they would. There's not much to com- 
 plain of." 
 
 " On the whole, then, you cannot see cause for any inter- 
 ference on my part ? You see no reason why Master St. John 
 should not remain at the Hall under his step-mother's cliarge? " 
 
 "No, sir; I cannot say that I do. And of course I am 
 always with him^ and can take care of him there as well as
 
 132 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 I could anywhere else. I shall never let harm come nigh him 
 from any one." 
 
 It was conclusive, and Mr. St. John intimated that the con- 
 ference was over. 
 
 " You see, I speak to you as the confidential attendant of the 
 child," he said. " You were named to me by your late master 
 as one in whom every confidence might be placed. Do me 
 the favour to regard what I have said as between ourselves, in 
 the interest of this little orphan. And always remember, that 
 in case of any emergency arising, where any — any counsel, or 
 advice, or interference on my part should be desirable, a letter 
 will find me at Castle Wafer. - I shall come over from time to 
 time — not often, for my health does not permit it ; and I shall 
 hope to have a letter frequently from the little boy." 
 
 He pressed a very handsome present into her hand as he 
 concluded, saying it was in recompense of her trouble and 
 attention. to the child. Honour's eyes filled with tears as she 
 took it ; it needed not money to enhance her jealous love for 
 Benja. 
 
 And the boy came back with Mr. Brumm in a state of 
 ecstatic delight, for he had seen the elephant and everything 
 else. He was despatched to the Hall with Honour, bearing 
 compliments to its mistress, and a cargo of good things for 
 himself and Georgy. And Mr. St. John set off on his hr-me- 
 ward journey to Castle Wafer. 
 
 CHAPTER Xni. 
 
 ONLY AS BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 The September afternoon was passing into the twilight of 
 evening ere the master of Castle Wafer drew near his home. 
 Miss Georgina Beauclerc was almost at her wits' end. Deter- 
 mined to carry out her promise of informing him of the mishap 
 that had befallen his brother, she yet saw no means of doing 
 it without its coming to the observance of Mrs. St. John, but 
 by speaking to him in the moment that intervened between his 
 stepping from his carriage and entering the house. For this 
 purpose had she been hovering about almost ever since mid- 
 day, keeping out of range of the windows, and ready to walk
 
 ONLY AS BROTHER AND SISTER. 133 
 
 quietly forward as any ordinary visitor, as soon as the carriage 
 came in sight. But the carriage did not come ; and Georgina, 
 conscious that the Rectory dinner-hour was approaching, knew 
 not really what to do. 
 
 Just as she was ready to take some desperate step, had she 
 only known what, she heard the sound of wheels, and the 
 dusty carriage with its four horses drew quickly up. Georgina 
 was not less quick. But ere she had well gained the entrance, 
 ere the carriage door was opened, who should come out of the 
 house, but Mrs. St. John, her hands raised, her voice lifted in 
 consternation. 
 
 It was a very unusual proceeding, and Georgina halted : she 
 would not approach Isaac then. Devoutly wishing Mrs. St. 
 John over in Asia, Georgina listened, and caught sufficient of 
 what passed to hear that Castle Wafer was in alarm about 
 Frederick. He had not been seen or heard of since the pre- 
 ceding day. It turned out afterwards that he had written a 
 second note to Mrs. St. John, which the messenger, sent with 
 it, had never delivered. Georgina could not approach ; and 
 while she looked, Mr. St. John and his step-mother disappeared 
 within doors together. 
 
 Excitement was rendering Georgina ill. Have you realized 
 what an arrest such as this must be to a young lady, shielded 
 from the ways of the world } a threatened prison for one all 
 too dear? As she stood there, crouching behind the dwarf 
 shrubs on the lawn, not very conspicuous in the evening light, 
 Mr. Brumni came to the carriage, opened the door to take 
 something from the seat, and she darted up to him. 
 
 " Brumm," she said, emotion lending a catching sound to 
 her voice, " I want to see Mr. St. John. I must see him, and 
 without delay. If I go round by the other door and get into 
 his sitting-room, will you contrive to send him to me ? I dare 
 say he is in the drawing-room with Mrs. St. John." 
 
 For a minute or two Brumm only stared. He looked upon 
 the dean's daughter, if the truth must be told, as a rather 
 flighty damsel ; and he did not believe she could want anything 
 with Mr. St. John. That is to say, nothing of importance. 
 
 "My master is excessively fatigued, Miss Beauclerc," he 
 said at length. " I fear he will not be able to see any one 
 to-night." 
 
 " Don't be an idiot, Brumm," peremptorily retorted the 
 young lady. " I tell you I mtisi see him : the matter is almost
 
 134 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 one of life or death. You get him to me in some way ; but 
 take cave you do it witliout arousing suspicion in Mrs. St. 
 John." 
 
 She stole round the house as she spoke, on her way to Mr. 
 St. John's own sitting-room — the pleasant room you have 
 sometimes seen him in. Brumm, in doubt still, yet seeing no 
 remedy but to obey, collected tlie things from the carriage, 
 handed them to a footman, and then went to the drawing-room. 
 
 His master was not seated, but standing. By this Brumm 
 knew that he did not intend to remain in the room. Mrs. St. 
 John was telling him of what she called Fred's mysterious 
 conduct, and showed him the note received on the previous 
 day. She spoke complainingly, and avowed her belief that 
 her roving son had taken French leave to go back to London. 
 
 At any rate, there was nothing Mr. St. John could do in the 
 matter ; and in point of fact his fatigue was such he could not 
 in any case have done much. Excessive bodily fatigue takes 
 from the power of the mind ; and he did not seem to attach 
 much importance to what IN'Irs. St. John was saying. He went 
 out of the room, carrying the note with him ; and there he was 
 arrested by Brumm. 
 
 " Will you be so kind, sir, as step into your sitting-room for 
 an instant?" 
 
 " I am going upstairs, Brumm. I have not felt so tired for 
 years." 
 
 ■ " But — I beg your pardon, sir," resumed Brumm, speaking 
 in the covert tone he had before used, and which a little sur- 
 prised his master — " you — ^you are wanted there. If you will 
 step this way, sir, I will explain." 
 
 Mr. St. John quitted the proximity of the drawing-room, 
 which was evidently what Brumm wished. " Miss Beauclerc 
 was waiting to speak to him," he whispered as he crossed the 
 hall. "She said she wanted a word with him in private." 
 
 " Miss Beauclerc ! " Wondering very much, not perhaps at 
 her wishing to speak to him, there was nothing extraordinary 
 in that, but at the air of secrecy that Brumm seemed to invest 
 the affair with, Mr, St. John went to his sitting-room. Georgina 
 was pacing it somewhat like a caged bird, hardly able to 
 suppress her impatience. 
 
 " I have been waiting outside for you since twelve o'clock ! " 
 slie exclaimed, ignoring all ceremonious greeting. " I thought 
 you would never come ! "
 
 ONLY AS BROTHER AND SISTER. 135 
 
 " Do you want me ? " asked Mr. St. John. 
 
 '• Do I want you ! I never wanted any one so much in my 
 life. Has Mrs. St. John been teUing you that Frederick has 
 disappeared ? " 
 
 " Yes. She thinks he has gone to London." 
 
 "What nonsense!" ejaculated Georgina, pushing back her 
 bonnet from her flaming cheeks. "As if he would go off to 
 London in that manner ! I have come to tell you about him, 
 Mr. St. John. He had no one to trust, and so he trusted me. 
 He could not send a letter to await you, lest Mrs. St. John 
 should open it. He is at the Barley Mow all this time; a 
 prisoner." 
 
 " A what ! " exclaimed Mr. St. John. 
 
 " He was arrested yesterday morning. I saw it done, but 
 I did not understand it then. It's a horrible man in a great 
 high hat, and he has got him at the Barley Mow, until you 
 release him." 
 
 Isaac St. John sank into a seat, in his pain — his consterna- 
 tion. Living always completely out of the world, never having 
 been brought into contact with its rubs and crosses, a thing of 
 this nature was calculated to shock him in scarcely a less degree 
 than it had shocked the young girl before him, who stood there 
 looking at him with her large grey-blue eyes. 
 
 " xA-rrested ! " he murmured. " Frederick ! " 
 
 " You will go and release him, won't you ? " said Georgina, 
 anxiously. "It is a great deal of money; he told me it was 
 some hundreds ; but you will pay it for him ? " 
 
 "Yes, I will pay it," replied Mr. St. John, speaking as 
 one lost in thought. " How came he to tell j.ou about it, 
 Georgina ? " 
 
 " Oh, I went and saw him there. I guessed what had 
 happened ; there's no time to tell you how ; and I went. I 
 promised to keep his counsel. He is in a fever lest Mrs. St. 
 John should get to know it." 
 
 "And you will keep it, my dear!" cried Mr. St. John, 
 seizing her hand and speaking in imploring accents. " It is a 
 cruel disgrace for a St. John." 
 
 "Trust me; trust me ever," was the girl's earnest answer, as 
 she said a word of farewell and stole away. 
 
 Little more than an hour later, Frederick St. John was 
 sitting in that same room with his brother — a free man. He 
 was disclosing to him the w/io/e of his embarrassments ; which
 
 135 ST. MARTIN'S EVE, 
 
 he had not done previously. Not disclosing them altogether 
 willingly, but of necessity ; for Mr. St. John's questionings 
 were searching. The more Frederick told, the more amazed 
 grew Isaac St. John ; it may be said the more utterly astounded 
 and angry. He had never himself been exposed to the temp- 
 tations that beset a young man of position on entering the 
 world, and he judged them in by no means a tolerant spirit. 
 
 " Frederick, I could not have believed that any human 
 being, gifted with reasoning faculties, had been guilty of such 
 extravagance ! " 
 
 "The money seems to have melted, /had no idea it was 
 diminishing so fast." 
 
 '' It has been recklessness, not simple extravagance." 
 
 Frederick St. John was seated at the table opposite his 
 brother, one elbow leaning on it, the hand of the other playing 
 with the seal attached to his watch-chain. The attitude, the 
 voice, the bearing altogether, seemed to display a carelessness ; 
 and it vexed Mr. St. John. 
 
 " How has the money gone ? Is it of any use my asking ? " 
 
 " It would be of no use if I could tell you," was the reply. 
 " I declare, on my honour, that I do not know. As I say, the 
 money seems to have melted. I was extravagant ; I acknow- 
 ledge that ; I spent it thoughtlessly, heedlessly ; and when 
 once the downward path in money-spending is entered upon, a 
 man finds himself going along with a run, and can't pull up." 
 
 "Can't?" reproachingly echoed Mr. St. John. 
 
 " Well, Isaac, it is more difficult than you could imagine. I 
 have found it so. And the worst is, you glide on so easily that 
 you don't see its danger ; otherwise one might sit down half- 
 way and count the cost. I wish you would not look so 
 grieved." 
 
 " It is not the wilful waste of money that is grieving me," 
 returned Isaac ; " it is the — the thought that you should have 
 suffered yourself to fall into these evil ways." 
 
 Frederick St. John raised his earnest dark-blue eyes to his 
 brother. " Believe me, Isaac, a man can get out of money 
 without running into absolute evil. I can with truth say that 
 it has been my case. A very great portion of mine has gone 
 in what you and my mother have been wont to call my hobby : 
 buying pictures and running about after them. Wherever there 
 was a gallery of paintings to be seen, I went after it, though it 
 might be at the opposite end of Europe. I bought largely,
 
 ONLY AS BROTHER AND SISTER. I37 
 
 thoughtlessly ; never considering how I was to pay. I assisted 
 a great many struggling artists, both English and foreign, and 
 set them on their legs. I always travelled — and you know how 
 very much I have travelled — as if I were a wealthy man ; and 
 that is costly. But of evil, in your acceptation of the word, 
 those vices that constitute it, I have not been guilty. Of 
 extravagance, even, I have not been so guilty as you ma}- 
 think." 
 
 Mr. St. John lifted his eyebrows. " Not guilty of extrava- 
 gance ? " 
 
 " Isaac, I said not so guilty as you may deem me ; not so 
 guilty as appears on the surface. I fell into that dangerous 
 practice of drawing bills. When I bought pictures and could 
 not pay for them, I would give a bill for the amount. When 
 the bill was due, if I could not meet it, I borrowed money upon 
 another, and so patched up the deficiency in that way. It is 
 that that has ruined me. If I owed a hundred pounds I had 
 to pay two for it, sometimes three. Let a man once enter 
 upon this system, and he won't be long above water." 
 
 " Did you never think of the ending ? " 
 
 " Yes, often. But I could not pull up. There it is ! Fairly 
 enter on the downhill path, and there's no getting back again. 
 I can redeem myself in time, Isaac. If I choose to give up all 
 sources of expense, and live upon a shilling a day, as the saying 
 runs, things will right themselves." 
 
 " How long do you think you would be doing it ? " 
 
 " Four or five years, I suppose." 
 
 " Just so. The best years of your life. I should not like to 
 see it, Frederick." 
 
 " It might do me good." 
 
 " It would scarcely be a position for the heir of Castle 
 Wafer." 
 
 " Isaac, believe me, I have never presumed upon that idea ; 
 have never acted upon it. There have not been wanting 
 insidious advisers urging me to forestall my possible right to its 
 revenues, but I never listened to them. Though I squandered 
 my own property, I have not trenched on yours." 
 
 " Quite right," said Mr. St. John. " If anything in the 
 world could make me wish to deprive you of that heirship, it 
 would be the finding that you had presumed upon it for unjusti- 
 fiable purposes. Though you are as much the heir-apparent 
 to Castle Wafer, Frederick, as though you were my son,
 
 138 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 instead of younger brother, and I have assured you of this 
 before, it is well that the world should remember that the 
 doubt exists." 
 
 "I wish to remember it also, Isaac. It would be simple 
 folly on my part not to do so. So long as you live, your inten- 
 tions may change." 
 
 " Well now, listen to me. This matter has shocked me very 
 greatly, but I see that it might have been worse ; and if it has 
 purchased for you that experience without which I conclude 
 you worldly young men cannot settle down, I shall not think 
 the cost too dear. You must begin again upon a fresh footing. 
 A totally different one. I will help you upon two conditions." 
 " What are they ? " 
 
 " The first is, that you give me your word of honour never 
 to put your name to another bill." 
 
 " I will give it with all my heart. It is only these embarrass- 
 ments that have caused me to draw bills, and I liad already 
 made a firm resolution never to touch another, if once clear. 
 I hate bills." 
 
 " Very well then, so far. The other condition is, that you 
 marry." 
 
 For a minute Frederick St. John was silent. The avowal 
 seemed to cause him no surprise. He did not look up, only 
 paused in thought. It may be that he had anticipated it. 
 " I fear I must demur to that, Isaac." 
 
 " Hear me farther. It has always been my intention to 
 resign to you Castle Wafer on your marriage. If I have made 
 the abode beautiful, Frederick, I have only done it for you. I 
 shall go to that little place of mine in the North, and when 
 I come to Castle Wafer, it will be as your guest. Do not 
 interrupt me. No right to deprive me of it? Nonsense ! I 
 dare say I should be here six months in the year. Let me go 
 on. Your own property I will free at once from its encum- 
 brances ; and I should make over a liberal income to you 
 besides ; one fitting for the occupant of Castle Wafer. The 
 settlements on your wife also shall be liberal. Is there any- 
 thing more that you would desire ? " 
 
 " I do not desire half this," was the warm reply. " You 
 have ever been too generous to me, Isaac. But" — and 
 Frederick St. John laughed gaily— " before I can say that I 
 will marry, it is necessary to fix upon a wife." 
 
 " That, I hope, has been done long ago, Frederick."
 
 ONLY AS BROTHER AND SISTER. 139 
 
 " Not by me," he answered, speaking very quietly. " Tt has 
 not of course escaped my observation that you and my mother 
 have had your wishes turned towards Anne : but — I — I — have 
 not encouraged this." 
 
 " It has been the universal wish of the St. John family that 
 you and Anne should marry." 
 
 " I dare say it has. But the fact is, Isaac, I and Anne do 
 not care for each other. As well perhaps avow it, now it has 
 come to a point. Hitherto I have only evaded the question." 
 
 " Could you wish for a better wife than Anne ? " 
 
 " I could not find a better in real worth. But we marry for 
 love, not for worth : at least, worth goes for little when there is 
 no love. Aly inclinations do not lie towards Anne." 
 
 Mr. St. John's face looked deathly pale as he leaned forward. 
 The fatigue of the day was making itself acutely felt : and at 
 ^hese times crosses tell upon the heart. 
 
 "Do you know that her father wished it?" he said in low 
 tones. " He mentioned it to me more than once when he was 
 dying — how glad he should be if he thought you would marry 
 Anne. You were but a boy then ; but you were a favourite 
 with the earl." 
 
 " Fathers' wishes go for little in such matters," was the 
 unwelcome reply. 
 
 " Let me ask you a question, Frederick. Have you formed 
 any other attachment ? " 
 
 "No, At least" — and he laughed again — " I am not sure 
 but I had a fancy of the sort once. I believe it has passed." 
 
 " Is there anything between you and Georgina Beauclerc ?" 
 asked Isaac, " Any love ? " 
 
 " Not on — " my side, had all but escaped him in his impul- 
 siveness. But he was in time to alter the phrase. " Not any- 
 thing." 
 
 " Then it is not she who is keeping you from Anne ? " 
 
 " Neither she nor any one else. I decline Anne of my own 
 free will. But indeed, Isaac, one great and essential objection 
 is, that I do not care to marry at present." 
 ■ " Why don't you ? " 
 
 " I am unable to give you any particular reason, except that 
 I don't. And I really do not know who would have me." 
 
 "Anne would have you." 
 
 A peculiar smile hovered for a moment on his lips. It was 
 followed by words that bitterly offended Mr. St. John.
 
 I40 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " I shall not ask her." 
 
 Bit by bit the dissension grew. One word led to another, 
 and a grievous quarrel ensued. It was the first that had ever 
 taken place between the brothers. Hasty words were spoken 
 on both sides : things that leave a sting upon the mind : and 
 when, an hour later, Frederick dashed out of the room, it was 
 because he could not control his passion within it. 
 
 Lady Anne was the first he encountered. The sounds had 
 penetrated outside, and she was in a paroxysm of alarm and 
 uneasiness. "Oh, Frederick, what has been the matter? Is 
 it anything about me?" 
 
 Even then he was generous. Putting the cause upon him- 
 self, rather than on her, and disclosing what at a calmer 
 moment he would not have done. " I was arrested, Anne, and 
 Isaac and I have been quarrelling over it. Where's my mother ? " 
 
 " Waiting dinner all this time. We thought you were never 
 coming. They are coming in for the evening from the Rectory, 
 and will be here before we have dined." 
 
 He was turning away in search of his mother, when Lady 
 Anne caught him by the arm, speaking in a whisper : 
 
 " Nothing came out about Captain Saville ? " 
 
 " Not a word. Be easy. Have I not told you you might 
 ' bust me ? " 
 
 Seeking the presence of his mother, he starded her by saying 
 he was at once going up to London, by a night train. In vain 
 Mrs. St. John strove to combat his resolution, to ascertain par- 
 ticulars of the stormy interview just passed. Even as she was 
 pressing for it, he kissed her, and was gone ; asking Brumm to 
 see that his things were sent after him. 
 
 Swinging away from the door in his independence, he com- 
 menced his walk to the station at Lexington, with a step firm 
 and fleet, as became an angry man. For a very short way his 
 road lay through the covered walk, and here, as he was going 
 along in his haste, he encountered Mrs. Beauclerc, her niece 
 and daughter. 
 
 " Were you coming to escort us ?" asked Georgina, her words 
 ready as usual. 
 
 " I am hastening to Lexington," he said. '• I am going back 
 to London by the first train that passes." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 He made no reply. He turned to Mrs. Beauclerc, asking if 
 he could do anything for her in town.
 
 ONLY AS BROTHER AND SISTER. 141 
 
 "Nothing, thank you," she answered, "unless you should 
 see the dean. He was to be in London about this time, I 
 beheve. If you do see him, tell him that the sooner he joins 
 us the better it may be for Miss Georgina. /can do nothing 
 with her; she's placing herself beyond my control. Would 
 you believe that she was out some hours to-day, never coming 
 in until dark, and she will not tell me what was keeping her or 
 who she was with ! " 
 
 Frederick St. John hardly heard the complaint. He turned 
 to Sarah, who had walked on, as if impatient at the encounter. 
 
 " Will you not say God speed to me ? I may not be here 
 again for a long, long time." 
 
 She did not put out her hand. She simply wished him good 
 evening. Just this same freezing conduct had she observed to 
 him in the one or two interviews that had taken place since 
 his arrival. Who knows but it was the turning-point in their 
 destiny? But for this repellent manner, made unnecessarily 
 so, and which had told so disagreeably on him, he might in 
 this contest with his brother have said : " Not Anne my wife ; 
 change her for another, and I will not say you nay." That it 
 would have been listened to by Isaac St. John, there was little 
 doubt. 
 
 " I never saw mamma in such a passion," whispered the 
 giddy girl to him when the others went on. "I had kept 
 dinner waiting, you see, and nothing exasperates her like that. 
 Then she wanted to know where I had been : * Out with the 
 gipsies,' I answered. I couldn't tell the truth, you know. She 
 was so mad ! " 
 
 " And where had you been ? " 
 
 " Where had I been ! That's good ! In this very grove ; 
 here ; watching for the carriage of Mr. St. John. I came into 
 it at half-past twelve, and never got out of it until between six 
 and seven ! " 
 
 "You are a good and true girl, Georgina, though you are 
 random," he said, taking her hand and speaking in a softer tone 
 than she generally heard from him. " How shall I repay you 
 for what you have done for me?" 
 
 " Oh, it's not much," she said, her large grey eyes raised to 
 his, discernible in the clear niglit. He might have thought he 
 saw a moisture in them, but for her light tone, her careless 
 laugh. " It's not much, I say. Tell me why you are going to 
 London ? "
 
 143 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Because I have had a dispute with Isaac. Fare you well, 
 Georgina ; take care of yourself, child. Thank you ever for 
 what you have done for me." 
 
 The eyes had tears in them now, unmistakably; and her 
 hand rested in his with a lingering pressure. Mr. St. John 
 stooped in his heedlessness and left a kiss upon her lips. 
 
 " There's no harm in it that I know of, Georgina. We have 
 ever been as brother and sister." 
 
 Her cheeks crimsoned, her pulses beating, her whole frame 
 tlirilling with a rapture hitherto unknown, she stood motionless 
 as he disappeared round the turning of the walk. But ere she 
 had realized the emotion to her own soul, it gave place to sober 
 fact, untinged with sentiment. The delusive mist cleared away 
 from her eyes, and she saw things as they 7vere, not as they 
 might have been. 
 
 " As brother and sister !" she murmured in her pain. " Only 
 as brother and sister ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ST. martin's eve. 
 
 It was the loth of November, St. Martin's Eve, the birthday of 
 the young chief of Alnwick, and of his little brother George ; 
 the first birthday, as you will remember, since the death of Mr. 
 Carleton St. John, and of the boy's inheritance. Benja was 
 five, George three, that day. 
 
 The day was one of ovation for Benja. With early morning 
 a serenade of music had been heard underneath the windows, 
 proceeding from some of the tenantry ; the servants came in 
 with their respectful congratulations ; and sundry visitors drove 
 up after breakfast to pay the same. A present had arrived for 
 Benja in the morning from General Carleton — a handsome gold 
 watch, which must have cost twenty or thirty guineas. The 
 General had never married, and knew far less about children 
 than he did about Hottentots, so no doubt thought a gold watch 
 was a suitable present for a young gentleman of five. Benja 
 was highly pleased with the costly toy, and of course wished to 
 appropriate it forthwith ; so Honour attached some black 
 watered-ribbon to it, which she put round his neck, and let
 
 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 143 
 
 him display tiie watch and key from his belt. It was a key 
 and seal in one ; Master Benja's crest and initials were en- 
 graved on it, and it was attached to the watch by a short gold 
 chain. 
 
 Matters were not progressing favourably between Prance and 
 Honour. And if you think, my readers, that the squabbles of 
 two maid-servants are, or ought to be, too insignificant to be 
 thus frequently alluded to, I can only say that the fact bears 
 so much upon the tragic event soon to be related, that the 
 allusion could not be avoided. About a fortnight before this, 
 Honour had had a day's holiday to go and see some relatives ; 
 she had wished to take Benja with her, but Mrs. St. John 
 would not allow it, and he was left under the charge of Prance. 
 In the course of the afternoon, Mrs. St. John drove over to 
 Alnwick Cottage, taking George. They remained there to 
 dinner, and during this absence of hers Prance and Benja came 
 to an issue. When Honour returned to the Hall — and she 
 reached it before Mrs. St. John did — she found that Benja had 
 not only been whipped with more severity than was seemly, but 
 that he had been locked up alone in an isolated room, where 
 his cries could not be heard. She found him exhausted with 
 weeping, marks raised on his back — altogether in a sad state. 
 Whether, as Prance affirmed, Master Benja had been unbear- 
 ably insolent to her; whether, as Honour said and believed, 
 she must maliciously have taken the opportunity to pay off old 
 scores of dislike to him, was not satisfactorily settled. Probably 
 the real fact might lie between the two. But you may judge 
 what sort of an explosion came from Honour. Prance shut 
 herself up in her chamber, and would vouchsafe no answer to 
 it ; the servants took part with Honour, for Prance had never 
 yet found favour with them. Mrs. St. John returned home in 
 the midst of the commotion. Honour carried Benja and the 
 complaint to her ; but she seemed to treat it with indifference, 
 and did not reprove Prance, as far as the household could 
 learn. Honour had been in a state of indignation from that 
 day to this, and her animosity to Prance was bitter. " She'd 
 kill the boy if she could," was a remark of hers that went 
 openly through the house. 
 
 Mrs. St. John sat in her drawing-room, waiting for the boys. 
 She had promised to dine with them that day at two, and cut 
 the birthday-pudding, foregoing her usual late dinner. Being a 
 rather strict disciplinarian as to the children taking their meals
 
 144 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 regularly, she preferred to change her own hour for once, not 
 theirs. The boys were being attired, and she sat waiting for 
 them, her outward demeanour calm as usual, her mind a very 
 chaos of rebellious tumult. 
 
 The marks of honour shown to Benja that day had not been 
 extended to George. They were paid to the boy as the heir, 
 not simply as Benja St. John. People had kissed Georgy, and 
 wished him many happy returns, but there it ended. There 
 had been no court paid to him, no music, no set congratula- 
 tions ; they had been rendered to the chief of Alnwick. And 
 Mrs. St. John was resenting this ; ah, how bitterly ! It was the 
 first time the wide contrast betveen the position of the boys 
 had been brought palpably before her, and but for the very 
 greatest control, she had burst into a frenzy. 
 
 " I can't bear it ; I can't bear it," she exclaimed to herself, 
 clasping her hands in pain. " Why should my boy be displaced 
 for that other — despised — passed over as nothing ! My dar- 
 ling ! my life ! my all ! If he had only been born first ; if he 
 had only been born first !" 
 
 She unclasped her hands, and bent her head down on them, 
 striving to subdue her emotion ; striving, indeed, to put away 
 the unhealthy train of thought. None knew better than herself 
 how utterly futile it was to indulge it, how much happier it 
 would be for her if she could drive it away to some far-off 
 Lethe, whence it would never rise again. There is not the 
 least doubt that this poor young woman, who had been born 
 into the world with unwholesome passions, and had not had 
 them checked in childhood, was really trying to do a good 
 part by her step-son ; and she believed she was doing it. She 
 relied entirely on her own strength : she had not learnt yet 
 where to look for any other. The daily struggle was getting 
 rather formidable. It was directed to two points : on the one 
 hand, she strove partially to hide her most passionate love for 
 her own child ; on the other, she tried to overcome her jealous 
 dislike of Benja. But there were times, as to-day, when this 
 jealousy raged within her, seeming to scorch her breast to 
 madness. 
 
 The children came in, radiant with good humour and happi- 
 ness : Benja with his face of intelligence, Georgy with his 
 shower of fair curls and pretty ways. Mrs. St. John lifted her 
 pale face and kissed them both : she was striving, in her own 
 feeble way, against her evil spirit. They wore new black
 
 ST. MARTIN'S FA'E. 145 
 
 velvet birthday-dresses, with narrow crimped cambric frills 
 round the neck, and on the left sleeve of each dress was a knot 
 of crape, badge of their mourning. From Benja's belt was 
 conspicuously displayed the new watch ; and Benja did not 
 tire of rattling the chain. Even that little trifle, the present of 
 the watch, was made a subject of resentment by Mrs. St. 
 John. Benja had two watches now. In the last days of his 
 father's illness he had taken his watch off and given it to Benja. 
 " ^Vhen he shall be twelve years old, Charlotte, let him take it 
 into use," he said to liis wife. Yes ; Benja had two watches ; 
 Georgy none. 
 
 Georgy began, in his noisy fashion, to climb on his mother's 
 knee, and Mrs. St. John threw back the white crape lappets of 
 her cap as she clasped the boy to her. Georgy, however, did 
 not favour clasping as a rule, and he struggled out of it now. 
 
 "What's that ?" cried he, snatching at a note that lay on the 
 table at his mother's elbow. 
 
 " That's a note from grandmamma, Georgy ; she cannot 
 come to us to-day." 
 
 " Oh, I am so sorry," cried Benja, who was exceedingly fond 
 of Mrs. Darling, always kind and good-humoured to the 
 children. " Why can't she come, mamma? " 
 
 " She's not well," answered Mrs. St. John, languidly, but in a 
 tone that seemed to indicate she did not care much about the 
 matter, one way or the other. Mrs. Darling had been invited 
 to spend the birthday with them ; but in the note just received 
 from her by Mrs. St. John, she intimated that she was very un- 
 well indeed. A rare excuse for INIrs. Darling to put forward, 
 who was always in the possession of rude health. 
 
 " Mamma, me want a watch." 
 
 "You shall have one, my son." 
 
 " When ?" continued Georgy. 
 
 " As soon as I can get out to buy you one." 
 
 " One that goes, like Benja's ? " demanded Master Georgy. 
 
 " It shall be the best gold watch that I can buy for money," 
 answered Mrs. St. John, allowing the passionate emotion that 
 the subject called up to become momentarily apparent. 
 
 An opportune interruption intervened : the butler came in 
 and announced dinner. Mrs. St. John, feeling a relief, she 
 could not tell from what, went quickly to the dining-room, 
 Georgy held in her hand, Benja following. 
 
 It was a sumptuous repast. The housekeeper had put forth 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. 10
 
 146 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 her strength to do honour to the birthdays ; but, had you asked 
 her tuhy she had so exerted herself, she might have said it was 
 the heir she had thought of, more than the little one. Inviting as 
 the entertainment was, however, there was one of the three who 
 did little justice to it, and that was Mrs. St. John. She could 
 not eat : but, as if the fire of her restless spirit had imparted 
 itself to her body, she drank frequently, as one parched with 
 thirst. Sherry and champagne were the wines used with 
 dinner. She was kind and attentive to the boys, helping both 
 to whatever dishes they chose, and to as much as they chose. 
 Prance, who was in attendance upon Master George, seeing 
 that his birthday-dress did not come to grief, forgot her good 
 manners by telling him that he " ate enough for a little pig : " 
 of which Mrs. St. John took no manner of notice, but con- 
 tinued to heap his plate according to his fancy. Honour was 
 not present, Master Benja being considered old enough now 
 to be waited on by the men-servants. 
 
 Dinner came to an end, the servants and Prance withdrew, 
 and the children were left to take dessert with their mamma. 
 Mrs. St. John was drinking port wine then and cracking 
 walnuts, of which fruit she was very fond. By-and-by, when 
 the boys grew tired of sitting, they slid off their chairs, and 
 began to look out for some amusement. Had Mrs. St. John 
 been wise, she would have rung the nursery-bell then, and sent 
 them to the nursery, where they might play at leisure ; but 
 she was absorbed with her walnuts and port wine, and did 
 nothing of the sort. After capering about for a short time, 
 George went up to Benja. 
 
 " Let me have the watch on now," he began 
 
 "No," said Benja, "you'll break it." 
 
 " Me shan't break it," lisped Georgy. 
 
 " I'm afraid," returned Benja, rather undecidedly. " Honour 
 said you would." 
 
 " Mamma, Benja won't let me have his watch !" 
 
 "Don't ask him, my darling," said Mrs. St. John, her 
 mother's heart more resentful at the refusal than Georgy's was, 
 for the conversation had penetrated to her senses. '•' I will 
 buy you a better one than that." 
 
 "But me want that now," retorted resolutely Master George, 
 who had a will of his own. " Me won't break it, Benja." 
 
 Benja possessed one of the kindest hearts beating. He 
 looked at his watch, thinking he should not like it to be
 
 ST. MARTIN'S EVS. 147 
 
 broken, and then he looked at Georgy, who stood turning up 
 his pretty face, eagerly protesting he would take care of it. In 
 another moment, Benja had hung the watch round the younger 
 one's neck. 
 
 Gratification enough for the time. Georgy paraded up and 
 down the room, the watch hanging before him on his velvet 
 tunic, as if the walls were alive with eyes, and he was chal- 
 lenging their admiration. Presently he stood still, took off the 
 watch, and began to open it. 
 
 " Don't do that," interposed Benja, who had been watching 
 all the time. " You'll spoil it. Give it back to me." 
 
 " No," said Master George, very positively. 
 
 "Give it back to me, I tell you, Georg}^" 
 
 " Give him back his watch, Georgy, my dearest," inter- 
 rupted Mrs. St. John. " Let him keep it to himself if he is so 
 selfish." 
 
 Benja, child though he was, felt a sense of injustice. But 
 the reproach told, and he made no further remonstrance. There 
 was ever a certain timidity in his heart when in the presence of 
 Mrs. St. John. So Cieorge thought he could go as far as he 
 pleased with impunity, and his next movement was to take firm 
 hold of the short gold chain and swing the watch round and 
 round after the manner of a rattle. 
 
 "Oh, mamma, mamma !" cried Benja, in an agony, running 
 up to Mrs. St. John and laying his hands upon her knee, to 
 attract her attention, " do not let him spoil my watch. See 
 what he is doing with it ! " 
 
 Mrs. St. John's usual self-control deserted her. That self- 
 control, I mean, which enabled her to treat Benja and George 
 with equal justice. Whether the morning's doings, the ovations 
 to Benja, were really exciting her more than she could bear, or 
 whether — but let that pass for the present. However it might 
 be, she tacitly refused to interfere, and pushed Benja from her 
 with a gesture of dislike. The boy, finding he could get no 
 redress where it ought to have been afforded, ran back to 
 Georgy and seized him just as he was flying to his mother for 
 protection. The naughty, spoiled child, finding he might no 
 longer retain possession of the watch, dashed it into a far corner, 
 and they heard its glass crash on the floor, beyond the turkey 
 carpet. 
 
 Benja was by nature a sweet-tempered child : he had also 
 been kept under by Mrs. St. John ; but this was more than he
 
 148 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 could bear; He burst into a loud fit of weeping, and struck 
 out at Georgy with all his might and main. Georgy roared, 
 screamed, kicked, and tried to bite. 
 
 As a tigress flies to protect its young, up rose Mrs. St. John, 
 her voice loud, her eyes wearing that strangely wild look at 
 times observable there. A passion, mad and fierce as that you 
 once saw her in, in the presence of her husband, overpowered 
 her now. As she had hurled Benja to the ground that ever-to- 
 be-remembered day, so she would have hurled him this ; but 
 the boy was older and stronger now, and he struggled against 
 it. Better that he had yielded ! It might in a degree have 
 appeased the mad woman who v/as upon him : and his strength 
 was as nothing compared with hers. His little head was struck 
 against the table, his costly new birthday-dress was torn. 
 He screamed with pain, Georgy screamed with terror, and 
 Honour, who happened to be near the door at the time, came 
 rushing in. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! " she exclaimed, " what is it ? What has 
 he done ? " 
 
 "Me took his watch," sobbed little Georgy, in a fit of 
 remorseful generosity. " Me not want mamma to hit him like 
 that." 
 
 " How can you for shame treat him in such a manner, 
 ma'am ? " cried Honour, indignantly, as her own passion rose ; 
 and she spoke to her mistress as she had never dared to speak 
 before. " Poor orphan child ! Nobody to protect him ! How 
 can you reconcile it to the memory of my dead master?" 
 
 Mrs. Carleton St. John stood glaring at the girl, her hand 
 pointed imperiously, her voice low now with command. It 
 was asif some soothing oil had been thrown on the wounds 
 of passion. 
 
 " To-morrow morning you quit my service. Honour Tritton ? 
 I never tolerate insolence, and I find that you have been here 
 too long. Take that boy out of my sight." 
 
 Somehow in the fray, they had all hemmed themselves into a 
 corner, and the broken glass was cracking under Mrs. St. John's 
 feet. Honour picked up the watch with a jerk which bespoke 
 the tempei she was in, clasped the sobbing boy tenderly in her 
 arms, and went upstairs with him, meeting Prance at the dining- 
 room door, as she was gliding in. 
 
 "It's a burning shame !" broke forth Honour, sitting down 
 by the nursery fire and dashing the coals about with the poker,
 
 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 149 
 
 while she held Benja to her with the other hand — " it's a burn- 
 ing shame that he should be so treated ! If she does turn me 
 away, I'll go every step of the way to Castle Wafer and tell all 
 I know to your guardian, Benja. If I don't do it, may Heaven 
 never prosper me ! " 
 
 Poor little ill-treated child ! He lay there in her lap, smarting 
 with the pain, his trembling heart beating. 
 
 " Let the worst come to the worst, my precious lamb, it can 
 only be for a few years," began Honour again. " I know it said 
 in my master's will that you were to be sent early to Eton." 
 
 " What's Eton ? " sobbed Benja. 
 
 " Something very good," rejoined Honour, who had no definite 
 ideas on the subject herself. "And when you are of age, my 
 darling, all Alnwick will be yours, and she and Master Georgy 
 must turn out of it." 
 
 "Where will they go?" asked Benja. 
 
 " I don't know where, and it don't matter where," continued 
 the woman in her injudicious partisanship. " You will be master 
 at Alnwick, and nobody can live here then unless you choose to 
 let them." 
 
 " Who is master now ? " questioned Benja. 
 
 *' You are, my pretty boy, and have been ever since your papa 
 died ; only she lives in it and gives orders because you are not 
 old enough. Master's wits must have gone a wool-gathering," 
 added the exasperated Honour in soliloquy, "when he left her 
 with any power over the child at all." 
 
 Honour was right in the main. 
 
 Benja remained on her lap, his sobs gradually subsiding. He 
 lay thinking of many things, such as occur to children, his ideas 
 running from one topic to another. Presently he spoke. 
 
 " Honour, when is my church to be finished?" 
 
 "Suppose I finish it this afternoon," cried Honour, starting 
 up. "There's scarcely anything left of it to do, and if I am 
 turned away it may never get done at all." 
 
 Opening a closet-door, she took from it what seemed to be 
 the model of a very pretty country church, with its spire, begun 
 in pursuance of her promise to Benja after the visit to the 
 " Emporium of Foreign Curiosities." Like many another thing 
 entered upon in haste, this coveted treasure had not yet been 
 completed. The fact was. Honour found more trouble over it 
 than she had anticipated, and Benja, in the protracted waiting, 
 torgot his eagerness. AH that was left to be done now was the
 
 150 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 pasting on of the coloured windows. They were cut out of 
 thin rose paper; the walls of the structure being of thicker 
 paper and white, and the framework of thin wood. 
 
 Honour collected her materials, and soon accomplished her 
 task, though she had not been sparing of her windows. Benja 
 forgot his troubles in watching her. She had taken off his 
 velvet dress, with many a lamentation over the rent, and put on 
 him a brown-holland tunic, handsomely trimmed with black silk 
 braid. Over that she tied a white pinafore, lest he should make 
 too free acquaintance Vvith the paste. 
 
 At dusk all was completed, and this famous church lighted up 
 by means of the bit of candle inside. Benja clapped his hands 
 with delight. It was a novel, ingenious, picturesque sight, 
 especially to a child. The fire had burned low and there was 
 no other light in the room, so that the church was shown off to 
 perfection, and was a really striking and conspicuous object. 
 Suddenly the flame inside began to whiffle. 
 
 " It's the draught from that door," observed Honour. '" Shut 
 it, Benja ; shut it gently." 
 
 She spoke of the door which opened into Mrs. St. John's 
 dressing-room. It is possible that you may remember there 
 was formerly no door there ; but Mrs. St. John had caused one 
 to be made at the birth of George, that she might pass into the 
 nursery at will, without going into the corridor. Now that 
 George was beyond babyhood, this door was generally kept 
 bolted, the bolt being on Mrs. St. John's side, not any on that 
 of the nursery ; but it was sometimes, as now, left open. 
 
 Honour turned her head to the door as she spoke, and saw 
 the little boy place his hands upon the panel to push it to, 
 after the manner of children, and it closed gently. Benja came 
 to the table again to feast his eyes. The flame was steady now. 
 
 " There ought to be moss all round here," observed Honour, 
 pointing to the board on which the church rested. " But it's 
 too late to put it on to-night : and, for the matter of that, 
 I have no moss. If I stop, we will ask the gardener to get 
 some." 
 
 Benja did not care for the moss. To his admiring eyes 
 nothing could improve its present aspect. He gazed at it on 
 the drawers, he danced before it on the table, he carried it to 
 and fro in the room, obeying Honour's injunctions to keep it 
 upright and steady. In this manner some time passed, and they 
 allowed the fire to go out.
 
 ST, MARTIN'S EVE. 15 1 
 
 "Bother take ihe fire! " ejaculated Honour. '■' And I have 
 neither wood nor matches up here." 
 
 She had her hand upon the bell, when it suddenly occurred 
 to her that she would go down for the things herself. No one 
 living liked a gossip better than she, and the scene in the 
 dining-room was burning her tongue. Placing the church on 
 the table, and strictly charging Benja not to touch it while she 
 was away. Honour went out by the ordinary door, and 
 descended the back-stairs. To this door, and I would have 
 you note the difference, the fastening was inside. It was not 
 a bolt, but a common button, placed high up beyond reach of 
 the children. 
 
 Never had Honour relished a gossip more than the one she 
 now entered on with the servants. Every little detail of the 
 dining-room affray, so far as she had been a witness to it, was 
 related by her to the servants, who did not spare their com- 
 ments or their sympathy. Honour was quite unable to tear 
 herself away, until by the striking of the clock she found she 
 must have been there nearly half-an-hour. Hardly believing 
 her ears, she caught up a bundle of faggots and a box of 
 matches, popped them into her apron, together with a pair of 
 snuffers and an extinguisher, and ran up the stairs. Turning 
 the handle of the door to enter hastily, she was surprised to 
 find that she could not open it. 
 
 " Master Benja, why have you fastened the door ? " she 
 called out. " Come and undo it." 
 
 There was no reply. 
 
 " He must have got upon a chair and turned the button," 
 soliloquized Honour. But at that moment she became con- 
 scious of a smell of burning, as of wool. Letting the things she 
 carried fall with a crash, she flew along the passage and turned 
 into her mistress's dressing-room, that she might obtain entrance 
 that way. That door was also fastened, but on the outer side. 
 It was no unusual occurrence — in fact, it was usually kept 
 bolted, as was just now observed, and Honour at the moment 
 thought nothing of it. Slipping back the bolt, she went in. 
 
 Oh ! what did Honour see ! Where was the young heir of 
 Alnwick? A dark mass smouldering on the floor at the far 
 end of the room, the carpet smouldering, no trace whatever 
 remaining of the pretty and dangerous toy she had made, no 
 trace of ////;/, save that shapeless heap from which the spirit 
 had flown !
 
 153 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 With awful cries, with wild shrieks of terrified alarm, Honour 
 flew through the dressing-room, and down the grand staircase, 
 her cries arousing the household, arousing Mrs. St. John, 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CONFLICTING. STATEMENTS. 
 
 How the night subsequently went on, few at the Hall could 
 tell. For some time it was one scene of horror and confusion. 
 One of the grooms, unbidden, saddled a horse and went 
 galloping for Mr. Pym ; and in an almost incredibly short 
 space of time, the surgeon was there. But what could he do ? 
 That one precious little spirit had gone, never to be recalled 
 by leech of this world. Another, however, wanted the atten- 
 tions of Mr. Pym, — and that was little George. The child, 
 aroused by the cries of Honour from a sleep he had fallen into 
 in the dining-room, had escaped upstairs into the nursery. A 
 rush of terror overtook him, baby though he was, at what he 
 saw there, and at being told it was Benja, and he fell into a 
 succession of fits of sickness and shivering. 
 
 It must be assumed — it was so assumed in the house — that 
 this burning was the result of accident ; the result, it may also 
 be said, of Honour Tritton's carelessness. She had gone down 
 secure in the belief that the boy would obey her mandate and 
 not touch the church. Oh, how could she have been so 
 foolish ! To look at a new toy and not touch it, to gaze at its 
 attractions from a distance and not examine them, is philosophy 
 beyond a child. Perhaps the little boy— for he was an obedient 
 boy naturally — tried for some minutes to exercise his patience ; 
 but no doubt could be entertahied that he at length took the 
 church in his hands again. In how short a time the accident 
 occurred, and how it occurred, vas as yet unknown — it may be 
 said, it was hidden in mystery. 
 
 The position of those in the house during this time appeared 
 to be as follows. The servants were all downstairs, with the 
 exception of Prance; and Honour, as you have heard, was 
 with them. Mrs. St. John and George were shut up in the 
 dining-room, the latter asleep, the former, as she said, nearly if
 
 CONFLICTING STATEMENTS. 153 
 
 not quite asleep also. Where Prance was at the time did not 
 as yet appear, neither had any question been raised in regard 
 to it. 
 
 But in the midst of the dreadful horror which had taken 
 possession of the unhappy Honour, two points thrust them- 
 selves prominently forward in her brain. The one was. How 
 did the child get fastened in the room ? the other was, that she 
 had seen Prance hiding in a recess of the passage as she ran 
 along it. This was not so much a reincmbraiice as a conviction; 
 and it seemed to Honour as if she had not noticed, or had very 
 superficially noticed. Prance's being there at the time, but the 
 fact had flashed into her mind afterwards. On the opposite 
 side of the passage, about midway between the nursery-door 
 and the dressing-room door, the recess was situated — a small 
 arched recess. Poor Mr. Carleton St. John in his life-time 
 had wondered laughingly whether the architect had put it there 
 for ornament or for use. 
 
 The first person Mr. Pym sought on his arrival, after he had 
 taken a hopeless look at that sight in the nursery, where the 
 floor was now half-inundated by the water employed to put the 
 fire out, was Mrs. St. John. She was in the dining-room, and 
 he found her almost unnaturally calm and collected ; some 
 people are so in these moments of calamity. The only sign of 
 emotion was her death-Hke pallor. She gave him the account 
 of what had occurred, so far, she observed, as she knew it ; 
 candidly confessing to the fracas that had taken place in the 
 room after dinner. Benja had set upon George unmercifully, 
 and in return she had corrected Benja : boxed his ears, and, 
 she really believed, had shaken him. It was very rare indeed 
 that she was so hasty with either of the children ; and she 
 would give the whole world not to have touched him, now 
 that he was gone. After Honour took him away to the nursery, 
 she had remained in the dining-room, not quitting it until dis- 
 turbed by the shrieks of Honour. Prance came in once or 
 twice to ask if she should take George, but she did not let him 
 go. The boy went to sleep in his papa's large chair, and she 
 sat down by him and took his legs upon her lap. She was nearly 
 asleep herself when the cries began, and she had felt startled 
 almost to death. The whole fault, she feared, lay with Honour. 
 The woman had confessed the facts in the first moment of 
 terror : she had left Benja alone with some dangerous paper 
 toy lighted up with a candle, wliile she went downstairs and
 
 154 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 stayed gossiping with the servants. The poor little fellow must 
 have set himself on fire. 
 
 "But did no one hear his cries?" asked Mr. Pym, who had 
 not previously interrupted the narrative. 
 
 Mrs. St. John supposed not. All she knew was, that they 
 had not penetrated to the dining-room. The surgeon listened. 
 He knew the walls on that side the house were massive, and 
 if the child was shut up in the nursery— as it appeared he had 
 been — it was hardly likely that he would be heard, unless any 
 one had happened to be upstairs. The dining-room was in the 
 other wing of the house, its doors were double ; and the kitchens 
 were beyond the dining-room. 
 
 "The odd thing to me is, that he did not run out of the 
 room," cried Mr. Pym. " A strong lad of five years old would 
 hardly stop in a room to be burnt, for the want of escaping out 
 of it. The first thing most of us attempt in a similar calamity 
 is to run from the room : often a fatal step. But he does not 
 seem to have attempted it." 
 
 Mrs. St. John shook her head. She did not know any of 
 the details : they must of course be left to supposition. Honour 
 deserved hanging for having left the child alone with a lighted 
 toy. 
 
 It was at this juncture that Mr. Pym's attention was called 
 to George. The child was very sick ; had been sick at intervals 
 since the fright. After attending to him ; Mr. Pym went in 
 search of Honour. He found her alone, in a lamentable state 
 of distress, in the bedroom that had been hers and the un- 
 happy child's. 
 
 And now it must be mentioned that Honour had been 
 arriving at a sudden and very dreadful doubt. As the mists 
 cleared away from her brain and she was able to reflect more 
 calmly upon the probabilities of the accident, she began to 
 think whether it had not been wilfully caused. And the doubt 
 was assuming the aspect of certainty in her mind, when Mr, 
 Pym came in. 
 
 For some minutes she could not speak ; she could only cry 
 and sob, and cover her face with her apron in very shame and 
 remorse. Mr, Pym did not reproach her in her distress: he 
 rather set himself, when she had gathered calmness, to learn 
 what he could of the particulars. Honour freely confessed all. 
 She told of the affair in the dining-room, giving a different 
 colouring to it from that her mistress had done, and causing
 
 CONFLICTING STATEMENTS. 135 
 
 Mr. Pym's grey eyebrows to scowl themselves into ugliness. 
 She told how she had afterwards finished the church for him, 
 describing what it was, and where the idea had been taken 
 from. She said she had left it w^ith him lighted, had gone 
 down for wood, and stayed talking the best part of half-an-hour. 
 Not a thing did she conceal ; not a point that could tell against 
 herself did she gloss over. 
 
 " He was always an obedient boy," she wailed, " and I did 
 not think he would touch it when I bade him not. And I 
 never thought I had been down so long, till I heard the clock 
 strike !" 
 
 " It is strange you did not hear his cries ! " 
 
 " The kitchens are too far off." 
 
 " And it is very strange that the boy did not run out of the 
 room : unless smoke overpowered him from the first. I cannot 
 make out why he did not. It is a bad plan in general, but m 
 this instance it might have saved his life by bringing help 
 to him." 
 
 Honour made no immediate remark. She had been sitting 
 in a low chair, swaying her body backwards and forwards in 
 her distress. Suddenly she looked up at the surgeon and spoke 
 in a low tone. 
 
 " I want to know who fastened the doors." 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Mr. Pym, after a pause of 
 surprise. 
 
 " I don't think he was burnt by accident, sir," she continued, 
 glancing at the walls as if afraid of being overheard, and speak- 
 ing in the faintest possible whisper. " I think it was done on 
 purpose." 
 
 " Good Heavens, woman ! " exclaimed the astonished 
 surgeon, really wondering whether the trouble was turning her 
 brain. 
 
 " There are things connected with it that I can't understand," 
 she continued. " They did not strike me particularly at the 
 moment, but they do now that I can think of them. He 
 could n^t get out of the room ; he was fastened in." 
 
 That she was not suffering from mental aberration at present, 
 was apparent enough to the surgeon ; the girl was as sane as he 
 was. Honour thought he was never going to leave off staring 
 at her. 
 
 "When I left him upstairs, I left both doors open; that is, 
 unfastened," she went on, " When I got back again, both
 
 156 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 were fastened ; the one on the inside, the other on the out. 
 / 7C'a?it to k 71 07V who did it." 
 
 It might have been a fancy of Honour's, but she thought 
 the doctor changed countenance. " Are you sure of this ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " As sure as I am that I am living and my darling child is 
 dead." 
 
 Mr. Pym's eyebrows contracted themselves yet more. 
 " Just describe to me consecutively what occurred, will you ? " 
 he said. " How did you know that the doors were fastened?" 
 
 " Because I couldn't get in," said Honour, thinking it rather 
 a simple question. " When I got back with my little bundle 
 of faggots, I found the door was buttoned inside. I thought 
 the child had got upon the chair and done it ; but, short as the 
 moment was that I had for thought, it struck me as being 
 strange, for I had never known him to do such a thing before. 
 As I called to him to unfasten it, I fancied there was a smell 
 of burning, and I ran round through ray mistress's dressing- 
 room and turned the handle of the door to open it, and found 
 that door was also fastened, bolted on the outside. The smell 
 was very strong then, and in my frenzy I forgot the strange- 
 ness of the circumstance, for the door is in general kept 
 bolted " 
 
 "Then why should you be surprised at finding it bolted 
 then ? " interrupted Mr. Pym. 
 
 " Because it was not bolted when I went down," returned 
 Honour. " It was open while I was finishing the church, and 
 I told the child to shut it, as the draught caused the flame 
 inside the paper walls to whiffle about. He pushed the door 
 to with his dear little hands, and I watched him. That's how 
 I know it was unfastened then, sir." 
 
 " In your flurry afterwards, when you attempted to enter, you 
 perhaps only fancied it was fastened," suggested Mr. Pym. ' 
 
 " No, sir. When I tried to open it and could not, I found 
 the bolt was pushed into the grove to its full extent. The 
 end came beyond the grove, and I pushed it back with my 
 fingers." 
 
 Mr. Pym rose impulsively, as if he would look at the door 
 for himself; but halted suddenly and sat down again. 
 
 " That could not have been done without hands," proceeded 
 Honour. " And why was it done ? " 
 
 The surgeon made no attempt to answer the question. He
 
 CONFLICTING STATEMENTS. 157 
 
 seemed very greatly put out, as if the revelation had alarmed 
 or unnerved him, scarcely noticing Honour. 
 
 " Mrs. St. John says she heard nothing," he presently 
 observed to himself, as one in abstraction. " Honour, he 
 continued in straightforward tones to the girl, " I think you 
 must be mistaken. There appears to have been no one up- 
 stairs who would have bolted it. Mrs. St. John tells me she 
 did not quit the dining-room : the servants say they never came 
 up at all during the afternoon." 
 
 " One of them was up," rejoined Honour in the same low 
 voice, and the same roving gaze round the walls, " and that 
 was Prance. I saw her myself; I can't be mistaken. Does 
 she say she was not upstairs, sir ? " 
 
 " She has said nothing to me one v/ay or the other," replied 
 Mr. Pym. " I heard it said generally that the servants had 
 not been upstairs." 
 
 " Prance was ; and if she says she was not, she tells a lie. 
 She was hidden in the recess outside, opposite the doors." 
 
 " Hidden in the recess. When ?" 
 
 "After I dropped the things from my apron, and was running 
 round to the dressing-room, I saw Prance standing inside the 
 recess ; she was squeezing herself against the wall, sir, as if 
 afraid I should see her." 
 
 " Did you speak to her ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; and you may feel surprised at what I am going to 
 say, but it's the truth. I was so flurried at the time, what with 
 finding the first door fastened and with the smell of burning, 
 that 1 did not seem then to be conscious of seeing her. I 
 suppose my eyes took in the impression without conveying it 
 to my mind. But afterwards it all came into my mind, and 
 I remembered it, and how she was standing. It was just as if 
 she had fastened the doors, and then put herself there to listen 
 to the child's dying cries." 
 
 " Hush," authoritatively reproved Mr. Pym. " You are not 
 yourself, girl, or you w^ould not say it." 
 
 "I don't think I am," candidly acknowledged Honour, 
 bursting into tears. " My brain feels as if it were on the turn 
 to madness. Prance has been cross and hard and cruel to the 
 child always, and Pm naturally excited against her." 
 
 " But she would not shut the doors upon him if he were 
 burning," retorted the surgeon, some anger in his tone. " You 
 should be careful what you say."
 
 158 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " I wish I could be put out of my misery ! " sobbed Honour. 
 " I wish they'd hang me for my carelessness in leaving him 
 alone with a lighted toy ! I did do that ; and I hope I shall 
 he punished for it. I shall never know another happy moment. 
 Thus far the fault is mine. But I did not fasten the doors 
 upon him, so that he could not escape for his life : and I am 
 perfectly certain that in any fright, or calamity, or danger, the 
 child's first impulse would have been to fly down the back- 
 stairs to me." 
 
 She threw her apron over her head, sobbing and crying, and 
 swaying her body backwards and forwards on the chair as 
 before, in the intensity of her emotion. The surgeon sat still 
 a few moments, endeavouring to recall his scattered senses, and 
 then rose and touched her shoulder to command attention. 
 She let fall her apron. 
 
 " This thing that you affirm must be investigated, look you, 
 Honour. For — for — for the sake of all, it must be sifted to the 
 bottom. No one in their right minds," he emphatically added, 
 " would shut the doors upon a burning child ; and that appears 
 to be the theory you have adopted, so far as I can gather it. 
 Have you stated these facts to your mistress ? " 
 
 " I have not seen her since," answered Honour. " Except 
 at the first moment, when I ran down in my terror." 
 
 " And she came out of the dining-room then ? " 
 
 " She did, sir. The little child — he is the heir now — ran 
 out after her." 
 
 "Honour," said the surgeon, gravely and earnestly, "I do 
 not fancy the bent of your thought just now is a wholesome 
 one. You had better put it from you. I want you to come 
 with me and tell your mistress about the doors being fastened." 
 
 He went out of the room. Honour following. In the pas- 
 sage outside, suspiciously near to the door, was Prance. She 
 made a feint of being in a hurry, and was whisking down the 
 back-stairs. 
 
 " Here, Prance, I want you," said the surgeon. " I was 
 about to ask you to come to me." 
 
 The woman turned at once, quite readily, as it appeared, and 
 quite unruffled. She stood calm, cool, quiet, before Mr. Pym, 
 in her neat black gown and silk apron, the black ribbon strings 
 of her close cap tied underneath her chin. Not a shade of 
 change was observable on her impassive face, not the faintest 
 hue of emotion lighted her pale, sharp features.
 
 CONFLICTING STATEMENTS. 159 
 
 " This is a very dreadful thing, Prance," he began. 
 
 " It is, indeed, sir," she answered in her measured tones, 
 which, if they had not any demonstrative feehng in them, had 
 certainly no irreverence. 
 
 " How did the doors get fostened on the unfortunate boy ? " 
 
 Prance paused for about the hundredth part of a minute. 
 " I was not aware they were fastened, sir." And the answer 
 appeared to be really genuine. 
 
 " Honour says they were. Upon returning from the kitchen, 
 and attempting to enter by this door" — pointing to the one 
 still closed on the miserable scene — " she found she could not 
 enter. The inside button had been turned during her absence 
 below. Did you go into the nursery yourself and fasten it? 
 No one else, I believe, is in the habit of frequenting the nursery 
 but you and Honour." 
 
 I " I did not go, sir. I did not go into the nursery at all 
 during the afternoon. Mas'ter George was downstairs with his 
 mamma, and I had nothing to take me into it. If the button 
 was turned in the manner described, I should think Master 
 Benja must have got upon a chair and done it himself." 
 
 Still the same impassive face ; and still, it must be acknow- 
 ledged, the same air of truth. 
 
 "That may be," remarked Mr. Pynn. "The same thought 
 had occurred to me. But there's another point not so easily 
 got over. Honour says that the other door was also fastened, 
 the one leading into the dressing-room — was bolted on the 
 outside." 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know, sir," replied Prance ; and this time 
 there was a shade of uncertainty, of hesitation, in her voice ; 
 not, however, very perceptible to ordinary ears. " That door 
 generally is kept bolted," she added more freely, raising her 
 eyes to the doctor's. " My mistress took to keep it so, because 
 ]\[aster George was always running in while she was dressing." 
 
 " But " 
 
 " Be quiet. Honour," said Mr. Pym, cutting short the in- 
 terruption. " You are in the habit of attending on your 
 mistress, I believe. Prance, and therefore are sometimes in her 
 dressing-room," he continued. "Do you remember whether 
 that door was open to-day ? " 
 
 " No, sir, I don't," said Prance, after a minute's considera- 
 tion. " I dressed my mistress this morning for the early dinner, 
 and put the room straight afterwards, but I do not remember
 
 i6o ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 whether the door was open or shut. I should think it was 
 shut." 
 
 " It was wide open this afternoon," burst forth Honour, un- 
 able to keep quiet any longer, and believing Prance could 
 remember if she chose. " The poor dear child shut it with his 
 own hands while I was finishing his church." 
 
 " Is it possible?" responded Prance, her perfect coolness of 
 demeanour, her propriety of tone, presenting a contrast to 
 the excitement of the miserable Honour. " I cannot re- 
 member how it was when I was dressing my mistress, and I 
 had nothing to do in the room after that." 
 
 " And did not go into it ? " pursued the surgeon. 
 
 " And did not go into it ? " repeated Prance. 
 
 " Then you know nothing at all as to how the doors could 
 have got fastened ? " proceeded Mr. Pym. 
 
 '• No, sir, I do not. I could take an oath, if need be, that I 
 did not know the doors were bolted until you spoke to me 
 now," added the woman, the least possible sound of emotion, 
 arising as it seemed from earnestness, at length perceptible in 
 her tones. " I assure you, sir, I had no idea of it until this 
 moment. I — I should scarcely think it could have been so." 
 
 There was an ominous glare in Honour's eye at the ex- 
 pressed doubt. Mr. Pym did not want a passage-at-arms 
 between the two then, and raised his hand to command silence. 
 
 "Did you hear the child's cries, Prance?" he asked. "It 
 is incredible to suppose that he did not cry; and yet no one 
 seems to have heard him." 
 
 " You mean when he was on fire, sir ? " 
 
 " Of course I mean when he was on fire." 
 
 " I never heard them, sir. A child could not burn to death 
 without making cries, and desperate cries, but I did not hear 
 them," she continued, more in soliloquy than to the surgeon. 
 "It is an unfortunate thing that no one was within earshot." 
 
 Honour looked keenly at her from her swollen eyes. Mr. 
 Pym spoke carelessly. 
 
 " By the way, you were in the recess. Prance, just about tlie 
 time. Did you neither see nor hear anything then ? " 
 
 " In the recess, sir ? " rejoined Prance, turning her impassive 
 face full on Mr. Pym in apparently the utmost astonishment. 
 But not her eyes. " I was in no recess, sir." 
 
 " Yes you were. In that recess ; there," pointing to it. 
 " Honour passed you when you were in it." ,
 
 CONFLICTING STATEMENTS. i6i 
 
 " It is quite a mistake, sir. \Miat should I do in the recess ? 
 If Honour says she saw me there, her sight must have deceived 
 her." 
 
 " How do you account for your time at the period of the 
 occurrence?" inquired Mr. Pym. "What part of the house 
 were you in ? " 
 
 " I suppose I must have been in the dining-room, sir," she 
 answered readily. "I was iu there until just before the alarm 
 was given, and then I had come up to my bedroom." 
 
 "Let's see. That is the room on the other side Mrs. St. 
 John's bedroom ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; formerly my master's dressing-room. After his 
 death, Mrs. St. John placed me and Master George in it. She 
 felt lonely with no one sleeping near her." 
 
 " And that's where you were when you heard the alarm ? " 
 
 " I was in there with the door shut when I heard Honour 
 come screaming along the passage, running towards the grand 
 staircase. I had not been in my room above a couple of 
 minutes at the most. I had come straight up from the dining- 
 room." 
 
 " And you did not go into the recess ? " 
 
 " Certainly not, sir. What object could I have in doing so ? 
 I'd rather keep out of the place." 
 
 Mr. Pym looked at Honour. His expression said plainir 
 that he thought she must have been mistaken. 
 
 "What had you done with yourself all the afternoon?" he 
 demanded of Prance. 
 
 " I was about in one place or another," she answered. " Part 
 of the time I was in the onion-room. I went there for a 
 handful of a particular herb I wanted, and stayed to j^ick 
 the leaves from the stalks. And I was twice in the dining- 
 parlour with my mistress, and stayed there pretty long each 
 time." 
 
 " Talking to her ? " 
 
 " No, sir, scarcely a word passed. My mistress rarely does 
 talk much, to me or to, any of us, and she seemed a good deal 
 put out with the scene there was after dinner with Master 
 Benja. Master George was put out, too, in his little way, and 
 I stayed in the room soothing him. My mistress gave me a 
 glass of wine then, and bade me drink the children's health. 
 I went in later a second time, and stayed longer than the first, 
 but I was waiting for Master George to awake that I might 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. 11
 
 i62 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 bring him up to the nursery, for it was getting the children's 
 tea-time." 
 
 " But you did not bring him ?" 
 ' " No, sir, he did not awake, and I got tired of waiting. I 
 came straight upstairs, and went into my room, and I had not 
 been there two minutes when Honour's cries broke out. I had 
 not had time to strike a match and light any candle, and when 
 I ran out of the room to see what was the matter, I had the 
 match-box in my hand." 
 
 This seemed to be as comprehensive an account as Prance 
 could give ; and Mr. Pym himself saw no reason to doubt her. 
 Honour did. She had done nothing but doubt the woman 
 ever since she came to the house. Honour believed her to be 
 two-faced, thoroughly sly and artful ; " a very cat in deceit." 
 But in a calmer moment even Honour might not have brought 
 herself to think that she would deliberately set fire to an 
 innocent child, or close the doors on him that he might burn 
 to death. 
 
 Again Mr. Pym went into the presence of Mrs. St. John, 
 the two servants with him. She looked more ghastly than 
 before, and she was sitting with Georgy on her lap, the child 
 sick and trembling still. Mr. Pym mentioned to her what 
 Honour said about the doors being fastened, asking if she 
 could remember whether the one leading from her dressing- 
 room was open in the morning She answered at once — and 
 she spoke with the calmest and coldest self-possession, which 
 seemed as a very contrast to her ghastly face — that she could 
 not say with any certainty whether the dressing-room door was 
 open that day or not. She remembered quite well that she 
 had unbolted it that same morning while she was getting up, 
 upon hearing the children's voices in the nursery. She had 
 gone in to kiss them and wish them happiness on their birth- 
 day. "Whether she had rebolted the door afterwards or not, 
 she could not say. She generally rebolted it when she had 
 been that way into the nursery, but it was possible she had 
 not done so this morning. " I wish you would not ask these 
 questions," she concluded, momentarily raising her eyes to 
 Mr. Pym, for she had spoken with her face bent down, almost 
 hidden. 
 
 " But I must ask them," said the surgeon. 
 
 "It frightens George so," she added. "See how he is 
 shivering."
 
 INVESTIGATION. 163 
 
 And in truth the child was shivering ; shivering and trem- 
 bling as one in an ague. Almost as his mother spoke, he 
 raised himself with a cry, and was violently sick : and all Mr. 
 Pym's attention had to be given to him. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 INVESTIGATION. 
 
 The inquest was held the day following the death. A some- 
 what hurried arrangement ; but in these small local places the 
 convenience of the coroner has to be studied. It happened 
 that the county coroner was coming to Alnwick that day to 
 hold an inquest on a poor old man who had been accidentally 
 killed ; and the Alnwick parish officials, represented chiefly by 
 the beadle, decided that the second inquest should take place 
 as soon as the first was over. 
 
 It did so. The first was held at the workhouse, and was 
 over and done with in half-an-hour ; the second was held at a 
 public-house nearer the Hall : the Carleton Arms. The 
 same jury sworn for the other inquest, attended for this one; 
 and the witnesses were hurriedly collected without any formal 
 process of summons-serving. 
 
 It was universally believed that the ill-fated little child had 
 taken the lighted church, in defiance of the nurse's injunc- 
 tion and had then fastened the door to prevent her sur- 
 prising him in his disobedience. Honour's conviction alone 
 protested against this ; in silence, not openly ; she was weary 
 of arguing against the stream. That he had taken the church 
 in his hands, she feared was too probable, but not that he had 
 fastened the door to conceal his disobedience. A more open, 
 honourable nature than his, child never possessed : he was 
 always the first to tell candidly of a fault ; and she thought he 
 would rather have thrown wide the door that Honour might 
 see him at his disobedience, than close it against her. This, 
 however, was not the popular view of the case : t/ial was, that 
 the child had taken the dangerous toy in his hand, had slipped 
 the button, not to be caught, and then by some means set 
 himself on fire ; the remote distance at which all the inmates 
 of the Hall happened to be, just then, preventing them from 
 hearing his cries.
 
 i64 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 The fastening of the dressing-room door, which was spoken 
 of by Honour, who was the principal witness, gave rise to 
 some discussion. Nothing could be clearer or more positive 
 than her sworn testimony that the dressing-room door was not 
 fastened when she went downstairs, and that it was fastened 
 when she came up — bolted on the outer side. The puzzle 
 was, who had fastened it ? No person whatever had been in 
 the rooms, so far as could be learned. Witnesses were ex- 
 amined on this point, but nothing was elicited that could throw 
 any light on the affair. It was Honour's word against facts — 
 facts so far as they seemed to be known. The housemaid, 
 whose duty it was to attend to Mrs. St.' John's rooms, proved 
 that she had not been into them since the morning. From 
 the time of putting them to rights after breakfast, she was not 
 in the habit of again entering them until about seven o'clock 
 in the evening, after Mrs. St. John had dressed for dinner; 
 neither did she on this unfortunate day. The other servants 
 said they had not been upstairs at all : some wine had been 
 given to them, and they were making themselves comfortable 
 below. Honour was with them, talking, but not Prance. 
 Prance was not downstairs, so far as the servants knew, after 
 she left the housekeeper's room at the conclusion of dinner. 
 Prance herself was called as a witness, and accounted for her 
 time. Had gone into the dining-room whilst her mistress was 
 at dessert with Master George, she said, Honour having then 
 taken Master St. John upstairs. Had stayed there some little 
 time. Her mistress had given her a glass of wine. She 
 (witness) said that she had already taken a glass downstairs, 
 but her mistress answered that she could no doubt take 
 another. She did so, drinking to the two young gentlemen's 
 health. After that, went upstairs to her room ; stayed there 
 some time, doing a bit of work for herself, and putting up 
 Master George's morning things, which she had not had time 
 to see to after dressing him to dine with his mamma. Yes, 
 she said in answer to a question from the coroner, this room 
 was very near the dressing-room ; Mrs. St. John's bedroom 
 only dividing them ; but could swear most positively that she 
 did not go into the dressing-room. She entered no room 
 whatever except this, her own. 
 
 A juryman interrupted with a question. Where was deceased 
 at this time ? 
 
 With Honour in the nursery, the witness answered. It was
 
 INVESTIGATIONS 165 
 
 then that the paper toy, spoken to, was being finished and 
 lighted up — as the Hall had learnt subsequently. Afterwards, 
 witness continued, pursuing her evidence, she had gone down- 
 stairs into the onion-room, as it was called, a place where 
 herbs were kept ; had stayed there some time, getting an herb 
 she wanted, and plucking its leaves from the stalks. Then — - 
 
 Another juryman interrupted, a worthy grocer and oilman, 
 with whom the Hall dealt. What might witness have wanted 
 with the herb ? 
 
 The witness replied, with exemplary patience and the 
 impressive manner that always characterized her, that she 
 occasionally took a decoction of this herb medicinally. The 
 cook was in the habit of preparing it for her, but when it was 
 left entirely to that functionary, as much stalk as leaf was put 
 in, and the decoction suffered in consequence ; therefore she 
 liked to pluck it herself 
 
 Very good, the juryman answered. She could go on with 
 her evidence. 
 
 After preparing the proper quantity of herb, had taken it to 
 the scullery and laid it on what was called the cook's shelf 
 Did not see any of the servants except the under-housemaid, 
 who was lighting up the lower passages, but heard their voices 
 in conversation. Could not tell whether the under-housemaid 
 saw her; thought not. Went then into the dining-room, to 
 ask if she should not take Master George, as it was getting the 
 hour for the nursery tea. Did not take Master George. He 
 was asleep in the large chair. Waited some time, hoping he 
 would wake ; but he did not. At last got tired of waiting, 
 and left the dining-room. Master George still asleep, with his 
 feet on his mamma's lap. Went straight upstairs then, and 
 was about to get a light in her own room, when she heard 
 alarming cries from Honour. Could only see the outline of 
 her form as she flew along the corridor to the grand staircase. 
 The upper part of the house had not been lighted up, only the 
 lower, and a very faint reflection came upstairs. The cries 
 were alarming, full of terror. Witness was frightened, and it 
 was not a little tiling that frightened her. Ran down after 
 Honour, and saw Mrs. St. John come out of the dining-room, 
 frightened also at the cries. For the next few minutes could 
 not give a precise account of what happened. The chief thing 
 she remembered was running back with others to the nursery. 
 Poor little Master George also went. He stole up unnoticed
 
 i66 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 in the confusion, and saw what was left of his brother burning, 
 or, rather, smouldering. That was all she knew. 
 
 Mrs. St. John was not called as a witness. Having been 
 shut up — as was understood — the whole of the time in the 
 dining-room with little George, her evidence could not be of 
 importance, and the jury had respect to her feelings and did 
 not call her. It was announced to the jury that she freely 
 acknowledged having gone from her dressing-room into the 
 nursery in the morning, and that it was very possible she had 
 omitted to fasten the door afterwards. That, however, was of 
 no consequence : the door had been left open as Honour had 
 proved : by whom did not matter. 
 
 x'Ml the evidence was taken, and a discussion ensued in 
 regard to the point not cleared up, the fastening of this door. 
 Half the jury, including INIr. Pym, inclined to the view that 
 it had not been bolted at all, only shut ; but that Honour's 
 state of haste and agitation had prevented her getting the door 
 open at the first moment, and caused her to fancy that it was 
 fastened. The other half of the jury including the coroner, 
 thought that when the unfortunate little child had pushed-to the 
 door in obedience to Honour, the bolt had shot into the 
 groove with the movement : and this appeared the more 
 reasonable solution. In vain Honour protested that neither 
 was correct : that the door ivas bolted, and that it could not 
 have bolted itself when the child closed it; he shut it very 
 gently, and she must have heard the movement had there been 
 any. She might as well have talked to the wind : and to her 
 excessive surprise Mr. Pym approached her with a stern whisper 
 and a warning look. 
 
 "I wouldn't say any more about this. Honour." 
 
 Will it be believed that Mrs. Darling only heard of this 
 calamity when the jury were sitting? Living some distance 
 on the other side of Alnwick, news did not at all times penetrate 
 quickly to her house. At any rate, this had not done so : re- 
 versing for once the popular saying that ill news travels fast. 
 ]\Irs. St. John had omitted to send to her — perhaps it was 
 excusable in the dreadful confusion — and it was a positive fact 
 that the inquest was being held before the tidings were carried 
 to Mrs. Darling. 
 
 She might not have heard it even then, but that she happened 
 to send a servant into the village to execute a commission, and 
 the maid brought back the news. As is usual in such cases,
 
 INVESTIGATION. 167 
 
 she ran open-mouthed with it to her mistress. Mrs. DarHng, 
 who had been feeUng very poorly ever since the previous day, 
 and was saying to herself that if no better on the following one 
 she should send for Mr. Pym, was lying on the sofa, when the 
 door abruptly opened, and the servant burst in with the news, 
 her very haste rendering her incoherent. Mrs. Darling started 
 from the sofa in terror, only half comprehending. 
 . " JV/iaf do you say has happened. Cole?" 
 
 ■'One of the little boys is killed," spoke up the servant 
 eagerly. " Oh, ma'am, it's true ! He was killed last night, and 
 they are already holding the inquest on him. It was the heir, 
 Master Benja." 
 
 Almost as one turned to stone, stood Mrs. Darling. If ever 
 woman looked in awful fear, it was she. She could not speak 
 at first : she only gazed at the maid-servant, her lips apart, her 
 eyes wild. 
 
 " Killed ! Master Benja ! " she gasped. 
 
 " He was burnt to death," cried the woman, with sobs of 
 emotion. " I don't know the rights of it, though the place is 
 full of nothing else ; some said one thing and some another. 
 Any way, the foult was Honour's. She left him alone with a 
 lighted candle, and he set himself on fire. There is a tale that 
 somebody fastened the doors upon him to let him burn ; but 
 you know, ma'am, it can't be true. Not a bit of business is 
 doing at Alnwick, and most of the shops have a shutter or two 
 up. The inquest is on now, at the Carleton Arms." 
 
 With a prolonged shudder, Mrs. Darling seemed to come to 
 herself. " How is it that I was not sent for?" she asked : and 
 though the servant took the question to herself, and answered 
 that she did not know^, it was evident that it was not put to her. 
 
 All her indisposition forgotten, her bodily pain no longer 
 felt in the greater mental pain, Mrs. Darling put on her cloak 
 and bonnet and went out. The maid remonstrated that she 
 was not fit to walk ; wished her to at least wait until a fly could 
 be sent for : she was as one who heard not. Striking into the 
 field-path, by which means she avoided the gossiping village 
 — and she was in no mood for it then, Mrs. Darling emerged 
 from the fields almost close to Alnwick Hall, just below the 
 Carleton Arms. Had there been any way to avoid passing the 
 inn, Mrs. Darling had surely chosen it : but there was none. 
 As she came within view of it, and saw the idlers congregated 
 around it in small groups, a sick feehng of dread took pos-
 
 i68 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 session of her, and she shuddered as she had done in her own 
 drawing-room. Dread of what? Perhaps Mrs. DarUng could 
 not precisely have defined what : but she did think it would be 
 a mercy had the earth opened and let her through to the 
 opposite side of the globe, away from all trouble and care. 
 
 Not a word did she speak to any one, not a question ask. 
 vShe drew her veil over her face, pulled her cloak more closely 
 around her, and was hastening on, looking neither to the right 
 nor to the left, when she nearly ran against Mr. Pym the 
 surgeon, who had just strolled outside from the heat and bustle 
 of the crowded inquest-room. 
 
 " Is it you, Mrs. Darling ? " 
 
 " What is all this ? " was the rejoinder of Mrs. Darling, throw- 
 ing back her veil for a moment, and then seeming to recollect 
 herself, and putting it down again. " Is Benja really dead?" 
 
 "Really dead!" echoed Mr. Pym. "He has been dead 
 since yesterday evening. Had you not heard of it?" 
 
 " I never heard a word until half-an-hour ago. What was it ? 
 How was it done ? " v. 
 
 " Honour left him alone in the nursery with some paper toy 
 that had a candle in it. When she got back he was burnt to 
 death." 
 
 Mr. Pym was speaking strangely, in a cold, hard sort of 
 manner ; and, instead of looking at Mrs. Darling, his eyes were 
 directed straight over her head. 
 
 " Then it was an accident," said Mrs. Darling, after a pause. 
 
 "That will no doubt be the verdict of the jury." 
 
 The two stood in silence. Mr. Pym with his far-away gaze, 
 Mrs. Darling stealing surreptitious glances at him through her 
 veil. Presently she spoke, scarcely above a whisper. 
 
 " What tale is it that people have got hold of, about the child 
 being locked in the room ? " 
 
 " Ah," said Mr. Pym, " that's Honour's tale. She says that 
 when she left the boy, to go downstairs, the nursery doors were 
 unbolted; that when she returned, both were fastened. Her 
 theory is, implied if not avowed, that the doors had been de- 
 liberately closed upon the burning child." 
 
 Mrs. Darling turned her face away. She was as little given 
 as any one to betraying signs of emotion, but the eyes, for all 
 they were not looking at her, saw that the face was turning 
 livid. 
 
 "It can't be true," she whispered.
 
 INVESTIGATION. 169 
 
 "As I It'll Honour. Are you going to the Hall? Most of 
 its inmates are here, at the inquest." 
 
 " Charlotte is not here ! " exclaimed Mrs. Darling, turning to 
 him in what looked like alarm. 
 
 " No. The jury dispense with her evidence." 
 
 " Is— is — little Benja here?" 
 
 Mr. Pym shook his head. " The coroner and jury went up 
 to look at the remains, and adjourned here. It is a dreadful 
 thing ; very dreadful." 
 
 At the emphasized word, a sound, that was as much like a 
 groan as anything, escaped Mrs. Darling's lips. The surgeon 
 turned towards the inn door, she continued her way. Striking 
 into the avenue amongst the fine old park trees, she threw back 
 her veil where no eye was on her, gasping as it seemed for air, 
 in the twilight of the coming night. 
 
 A servant answered her summons, and she walked straight 
 through the hall to a small sitting-room, where the man said he 
 believed his mistress was. She went in gently, not to disturb 
 her : but Mrs. St. John was standing still in the midst of the 
 room in an attitude of breathless expectation : of what looked 
 like terrified expectation ; and unless the darkness of the 
 evening deceived her, Mrs. Darling had never seen her face so 
 intensely pale, or with that haggard look upon it. 
 
 " Charlotte ! " 
 
 " Is it you, mamma ? I thought you were ill." 
 
 " I was ill; ill for me, who never ail anything. But this— 
 this What's that ? " 
 
 Mrs. Darling sprang aside. A heap of something covered 
 over on the sofa had startled her. Surely her nerves were un- 
 strung to-night ! 
 
 " It's Georgy," answered Mrs. St. John. -" He has been ill 
 since yesterday. Hush ! don't wake him." 
 
 She took off her cloak and untied her bonnet, and sat down 
 by the fire near her daughter. Mrs, St. John did not speak. 
 
 "Charlotte, I have been dreadfully shocked. You should 
 not have allowed me to hear of this by accident. How did it 
 happen ? " 
 
 " You must ask Honour that." 
 
 "Was no one with him? Could no one hear his cries?" 
 
 " It seems not." 
 
 " Will you not give me the details, Charlotte ? " 
 
 " I only know them from hearsay."
 
 I70 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " But you — were — in the house at the time ?" 
 
 '• I was in the dining-room." 
 
 Mrs. St. John was evidently not inclined to be communica- 
 tive. She sat looking at the fire, and Mrs. Darling stole sur- 
 reptitious glances at her face, as she had recently done at Mr. 
 Pym's ; not that the face was very discernible in the increasing 
 gloom of the November evening. 
 
 " Do give me the particulars, Charlotte !" 
 
 " I can't, I tell you, mamma. I only know them myself from 
 hearsay. I was shut up in the dining-room with Georgy, and 
 knew nothing until startled by Honour's cries." 
 
 " You were shut up in the dining-room ! " 
 
 " Just as you found me shut up in this room now. Georgy 
 was asleep, and I had his feet on my lap. I wish you wouldn't 
 ask me about it. It is not a pleasant thing to talk of. I am 
 sorry now for having beaten him." 
 
 " You beat him ? — Benja ? " 
 
 " He was naughty after dinner. He had a new watch, and 
 would not lend it to Georgy, and they got quarrelling. He 
 beat Georgy, and I beat ///;//. I am sorry for it now." 
 
 "But it was not then that he was burnt!" exclaimed Mrs, 
 Darling, scarcely understanding. 
 
 "No. Honour took him away, and I stayed in the dining 
 room with Georgy." 
 
 " Did the accident happen immediately ? " 
 
 " Not for a long while. Two hours, perhaps, I don't know 
 how long exactly. I had been to sleep. It was daylight when 
 he went away, and it was dark when we heard the screams." 
 
 " And you, my poor child, had never moved from the dining- 
 room ! " 
 
 " Don't I say so, mamma ! " came the answer, a shade of 
 peevishness at being questioned in the otherwise impassive tone. 
 "I had kept Georgy with me." 
 
 Mrs. Darling drew a long sigh : it seemed like a relief from 
 some nightmare. " How came Honour to leave him with a 
 lighted candle ? " she exclaimed in anger. 
 
 " Mamma, I zvish you would not ask me these things ! I 
 don't care to talk of them." 
 
 For some minutes there was silence, but Mrs. Darling was 
 an impulsive woman, and it was almost impossible for her to 
 think of any fresh point without breaking out with a question. 
 She did so now ; suddenly, abruptly.
 
 INVESTIGATION. 171 
 
 " Is it true that the doors were fastened ? " 
 
 "Who told you they were?" exclaimed Mrs. St. John. 
 
 " Mr. Pym. I saw him as I came up here." 
 
 " Mr, Pym told you the doors were fastened ? " repeated Mrs. 
 St. John, fixing her strange eyes upon her mother. 
 
 " Yes. At least What he said was, that Honour asserts 
 
 they were fastened." 
 
 "Ay, ^/lafs true. But no one believes her. Mr. Pym does 
 not believe her ; he told her she must be careful what she said. 
 Prance thinks Honour was so flurried at the time, that her 
 recollection is not clear." 
 
 Again there was a pause. Mrs. St. John sat as before, gazing 
 at the fire, her haggard face — yes, it certainly was unnaturally 
 haggard— bent on her hand. INIrs. Darling seemed buried in 
 perplexity, and her fingers unconsciously smoothed down her 
 bonnet-strings. Georgy stirred in his sleep, and they both 
 looked at the sofa ; but he did not awake, and both were 
 silent for a moment. 
 
 " Is the inquest over, do you know ? " asked Mrs. St. John. 
 
 " It was not when I came past. Charlotte, have you written 
 to Castle Wafer ? " ■ _ 
 
 " I have not written to any one. Surely there's time 
 enough ! " 
 
 " My dear, I did not mean to anger you. I ^Vhat's 
 
 this ? They must be coming back from the inquest ! '' 
 
 The noise of many steps outside had called forth the inter- 
 ruption. Mrs. St. John rose from her seat and stood in the 
 middle of the room, fiicing the door ; waiting defiantly, as it 
 seemed, to confront any who might enter. It was just the 
 same position, the same look that had surprised Mrs. Darling 
 when she arrived. The butler came in. 
 
 "The verdict is 'Accidental Death,'" he said. "Appended 
 to which was a severe censure on Honour Tritton for leaving 
 the child alone with so dangerous a toy. And ma'am," he 
 emphatically added to his mistress, " she deserves it : and she 
 seems to think so." 
 
 The mistress of Alnwick sat down again. Mrs. Darling 
 caught up her cloak and went out of the room, her curiosity on 
 the rack for the sad details withheld by her daughter. 
 
 Honour di.I seem to think she deserved the censure, as the 
 butler had observed. Fully, fully had her repentant heart 
 echoed the condemnation of the jury. A never-dying remorse
 
 172 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 had taken up its abode within her. Mrs. Darling came upon 
 her on the staircase. The girl's face looked flushed, her eyes 
 glistening ; and there was a wildness in their expression that 
 spoke of incipient fever, had any been at leisure to note the 
 signs, or been capable of understanding them. 
 
 " Oh Honour ! what an awful thing this is ! " breathed Mrs. 
 Darling. 
 
 " It's more than awful," answered Honour. " I suppose I 
 shall get over it sometime, if I live : I don't know. Perhaps 
 God will be pleased to take me." 
 
 She spoke almost with the unnatural calmness of her mistress. 
 That alone would have told of something mentally wrong, or 
 becoming so. 
 
 " Honour — indeed I don't wish to reproach you, for I'm sure 
 your pain must be too great to need it ; but I must speak — /io7c> 
 could you leave the child alone with that lighted candle ? " 
 
 " Will you see him ? — what's left of him ? " was the rejoinder. 
 And without waiting for reply. Honour went into the nursery. 
 Something was resting there on trestles with a sheet thrown 
 over it. Whether it was a coffin, whether it was not, Mrs. 
 Darling did not stay to inquire. She arrested Honour's hand. 
 
 " No," she said. " I don't know that I could bear the sight." 
 
 Honour dropped the corner of the sheet again. " Well," 
 she said, "he is there; my darling treasure that was dearer to 
 me than anything in life. They were beating him black and 
 blue in the dining-room, and I brought him out, and I finished 
 the paper toy to soothe and comfort his poor little sobbing 
 heart, and I did leave him alone with it, the candle lighted 
 inside it. If I ever forget my folly, or cease to mourn for it in 
 repentance, I hope God will forget me. But, I am not the 
 sole author of his death ; Mrs. Darling, I am w/. Those who 
 came and fastened the doors upon him, and so let him burn, 
 are more guilty of it than me." 
 
 " Hush, Honour ! You w-ere mistaken. The doors could 
 not have been so fastened." 
 
 Honour laid her hand upon the sheet again, touching what 
 was beneath it. 
 
 "Mrs. Darling, don't jw^ be deceived. Some do not believe 
 what I say, and some are wishing to hush the matter up. I 
 swear that it was as I assert : I swear it by //lis, all that's left 
 of him. They say Benja must have buttoned the one door 
 himself; let it go so : I don't think he did, but let it go so:
 
 INVESTIGATION. i73 
 
 but he could not liave bolted the other on the outside. They 
 are hushing the matter up ; and I must do tlie same : I am 
 only one against many." 
 
 " Who is hushing it up ? " asked Mrs. Darling, from between 
 her white lips. 
 
 " Mr. Pym, for one. I say nothing about others, I am only 
 one amongst them. From this time I shall drop the matter, 
 and speak of it no more : but I should like you to remember 
 what 1 say, and to believe me. It is the truth. Heaven knows 
 it is. The doors were fastened upon him, and he was left there 
 — in a living tomb — to burn to death. When the facts come 
 to light, as they will sometime, if there's justice in the world, 
 we shall learn the truth. At present I don't pretend to under- 
 stand it." 
 
 Mrs. Darling felt frightened at the girl's words, at her reso- 
 lute manner (her impassiveness had now changed to passion), 
 at her hectic cheeks and wild eyes — all the symptoms of threat- 
 ening fever or insanity. She quitted the room, retaining a last 
 glimpse of Honour's throwing herself beside the trestles in a 
 burst of anguish, and sought Prance. Scarcely able to speak 
 from an agitation which she vainly endeavoured to suppress, 
 Mrs. Darling commanded Prance to furnish her with the par- 
 ticulars, to the minutest detail. 
 
 Prance obeyed without the slightest hesitation, her account 
 differing in no wise from the one she had just given to the 
 coroner and jury. Mrs. Darling questioned her as to the alleged 
 fastening of the doors : Prance maintained that the one door, 
 at any rate, had been fastened in Honours fancy only. It was 
 possible, nay probable, that the poor little boy had himself 
 fastened the one ; but as to the other, nothing but Honour's 
 haste (as she, Prance, believed) had prevented her opening it. 
 "The fact is," concluded Prance, "Honour was half paralyzed 
 with fear at the time, through smelling the burning j and she 
 has been as one mad ever since." 
 
 " And your mistress was shut up, I hear, in the dining-room 
 all the time with little George." 
 
 " Oh yes," said Prance, '• and the servants were shut up down- 
 stairs. Nobody could have gone near the room. If that door 
 was fastened, why, the bolt must have slipped as well as the 
 latch when the child closed it," added Prance. " The coroner 
 and jury thought so." 
 
 Mrs. Darling sighed in very perplexity. She could not get
 
 174 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 over Honour's positive and solemn assertion ; but it seemed 
 equally impossible to believe any one had been near the door 
 to bolt it. This last suggestion, that the bolt had slipped, was 
 a welcome one, and Mrs. Darling would have given half her 
 remaining lifetime to have been able fully to believe in it. 
 
 There went forth another announcement in the local papers, 
 Mrs. Darling wording it. 
 
 " Died, on St. Martin's Eve, at Alnwick Hall, on his fifth 
 birthday, Benjamin Carleton St. John, eldest son and heir of 
 the late George Carleton St. John, Esquire." 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 honour's ravings. 
 
 Ix-needed not many days for Honour Tritton to be in a fever, 
 accompanied by delirium, the symptoms of which had been 
 plainly showing themselves. Mr. Pym pronounced it a malady 
 of tlie brain, brought on by grief, horror, and remorse. It would 
 prolong her stay at the Hall, for she could not be removed ; 
 otherwise Mrs. St. John had given her notice to quit it as soon 
 as the funeral was over. Mrs. St. John had taken a shuddering 
 dislike to her. The word is used advisedly. Once or twice, 
 when she met Honour in the coYridors, she was seized with a 
 fit of shuddering that affected her whole frame. Freely she 
 avowed that she could not bear the sight of the girl ; but for 
 her, she said, Benja would be still living. But when the girl 
 was taken ill they could not turn her out ; and Honour lay in 
 bed, in the room that had been hers and Benja's. The pretty 
 rosewood cot, shorn for ever of its occupant, was yet in the 
 corner. At first she was not dangerously ill ; hot and feverish, 
 and a little excited at times ; but not in danger. It was the 
 day before the funeral that she took to her bed. 
 
 Mrs. St. John seemed more affected by the death than was 
 apparent to ordinary observers. Not a shade of emotion had 
 been seen on her impassive face ; not a tear, so far as any one 
 could trace, had been shed. But that she was grievously 
 affected by it, those about her saw plainly. A species of ner- 
 vousness — if the word may be applied to one so outwardly
 
 HONOUR'S RAVINGS. 175 
 
 calm — seemed to have taken possession of her. She was ever 
 brooding on the dreadful event ; she was afraid to go about 
 the house alone after dark ; not all the cordage of a seventy- 
 gun ship would have dragged her into the dressing-room, for it 
 was next to the nursery where Benja was lying. She chiefly 
 sat nursing George, who was ill still — remaining for an hour or 
 two intensely calm and quiet, then starting up and pacing the 
 room violently, as if unable to bear her own reflections — her 
 grief for Benja. " My dear, be still, be calm," Mrs. Darling 
 remonstrated one afternoon as she paced the room with wild 
 steps. " All the sorrow in the world cannot bring him back : 
 in a little time, if you can only realize it, you will gather comfort 
 from the fact that he is better off." " Mamma, I would hang 
 Honour Tritton if I could ! " was the only answer. 
 
 "What Mrs. St, John would ha\e done without her mother at 
 this time, it was impossible to tell ; though perhaps, had 
 necessity imposed it on her, she might have been aroused to 
 exert herself. Mrs. Darling, forgetting her own ailments, and 
 she was feeling really ill, took everything upon herself, and liad 
 to do it. It was she who wrote letters to apprise friends of the 
 calamity ; it was she who made arrangements for the funeral : 
 Charlotte would take neither act nor part in it. I\Irs. Darling 
 did what she could to amuse her daughter, and divert her mind 
 from the fatal night. She talked to her of family interests, she 
 read letters to her from her daughter ]\Iargaret, who was in 
 Berkshire ; she enlarged upon the letters from her son Frank. 
 There had been some trouble or escapade, or something un- 
 pleasant with Rose, during his visit to Belport in the autumn, 
 she said, but she could not get to the bottom of it, and per- 
 haps never should : she expected it all arose from Rose's 
 rebellion at being kept at school. These, and similar topics, 
 did Mrs. Darling pursue ; but her daughter was as one who 
 heard not. It might, in fact, be questioned whether she did 
 hear ; and if she answered it was only mechanically. 
 
 The day of the funeral arrived, and friends and relatives 
 came from far and near to follow to his last resting-place the 
 ill-fated little heir of Alnwick. As it had been in the days when 
 George St. John died, so it was again. Mr. St. John of Castle 
 Wafer was too ill to attend, but Frederick St. John came 
 down from London in his place. Captain Darling also came. 
 Neither of them stayed beyond the day, and they agreed to 
 travel back to town together. Indeed, none of the guests were
 
 176 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 asked to remain : the Hall was not in a mood for welcoming 
 visitors just now, 
 
 Mrs. Darling took the opportunity of asking her son what the 
 hinted escapade of Rose's might have been ; but he only laughed 
 it off, and did not explain. He had corrected her for it, he said, 
 and he didn't think she would attempt a second. 
 
 So the child was laid in the vault with his father and his 
 poor young mother, whose life he had cost ; and the train of 
 mourners and attendants returned to the Hall, and then dis- 
 persed, none of them. Captain Darling excepted, having seen 
 Alnwick's mistress. Something had been said about little 
 Georgy — now the heir — going to the funeral ; but it was 
 decided that he was too young. And besides, he was not 
 well. 
 
 There was estrangement still between Isaac St. John and his 
 brother ; but the aspect of affairs had changed, and Isaac, on 
 his part, would have been all too willing to be reconciled. 
 Lady Anne St. John was on the point of marriage with Captain 
 Saville, who had unexpectedly come into a large inheritance. 
 Anne confessed all to Isaac. How there had been a secret 
 understanding between her and Captain Saville, and Frederick 
 was keeping league with them, and to screen Anne, taking on him- 
 self the blame of refusing to marry her. Isaac St. John would 
 then have been reconciled to his brother. He did not make 
 any decisive move towards it, but he allowed his wishes to 
 become known to Frederick through Mrs. St. John. Mr. 
 Frederick, however, had a spice of obstinacy in his compo- 
 sition, and chose to hold on his own way. He had recently 
 come into some money through an aunt, and this he was apply- 
 ing to liquidating his own debts, living meanwhile quietly 
 in London, and spending all his time at his favourite art — 
 painting. 
 
 The day of the funeral came to an end. Everything had 
 passed off quietly, without undue bustle and agitation, which 
 might perhaps have been expected under the circumstances of 
 the case. Little George had burst into wailing sobs when the 
 mourning carriages came back to the Hall, saying he wanted 
 Benja. They told him Benja was gone to heaven to be happy 
 for ever, and to play upon a golden harp. But the child still 
 cried bitterly. Captain Darling carried him out on the slopes, 
 and in due time brought him back soothed ; having entered 
 upon some magnificent promises touching a live pony, when
 
 HONOUR'S RAVINGS. 177 
 
 the young gentleman should have grown as tall as Benja 
 was. 
 
 On the following morning Mrs. St. John was to leave the 
 Hall for a time. It was her own proposition, but Mrs. 
 Darling seconded it. At first she was only going to the 
 cottage, her mother's residence ; later she would take Georgy 
 to some watering-place, and return to the Hall for 
 Christmas. 
 
 You cannot keep gossiping tongues still. Since the inquest, 
 a great deal of discussion had taken place as to the disputed 
 question of the dressing-room door. In the Hall, and out of 
 it for miles, it formed the theme of conversation, and specula- 
 tion was rife as to the real truth. Once establish the foct of 
 the door's having hetn previously bolted, and there was an end 
 to all mystery. Honoui's unwavering assertion that it ivas 
 bolted when she arrived, made weight gradually and silently ; 
 the almost as indisputable fact that no one had been near to 
 bolt it received full credence ; and the solution gradually 
 arrived at was, that when the little boy had closed the door, 
 the bolt had slipped. It appeared to be the only feasible 
 explanation. The more it was talked of and dwelt upon, the 
 more certain did it appear, and by the day of the funeral it was 
 received as an undoubted fact. Mr. Pym so received it ; Mrs. 
 Darling spoke of it as a discovery, not a supposition. Even 
 Honour, weak, ill, and miserable, was brought to acknowledge 
 that such might have been the case. 
 
 " What a mercy that it's cleared up ! " cried Mrs. Darling to 
 her daughter. " It was so very unpleasant to have any mystery 
 connected with it : the event was unhappy enough in itself, 
 without that. We can so far dismiss the unpleasantness from 
 our minds now, Charlotte." 
 
 Mrs. Darling intended to return to the cottage with her 
 daughter. She was busy in her room after breakfast on the 
 morning of departure, putting together the few things which 
 had been sent over for her use from home, when one of the 
 housemaids happened to mention that Honour was worse, and 
 "saying queer things." 
 
 "What queer things?" asked Mrs. Darling, in the midst of 
 folding a crape collar. 
 
 " Oh, ma'am, about the accident ; about the bolting of the 
 door, that there has been so much talk over " 
 
 " The door bolted itself when Honour caused it to be closed ; 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. 12
 
 178 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 it has been conclusively decided so," sharply interrupted Mrs. 
 Darling. 
 
 " I know it has, ma'am," replied the maid. " But Honour 
 is off her head, and does not know what she is saying. She 
 has been raving about her mistress, fancying she's at the bed- 
 side, and asking her whether she did not bolt the doors on 
 Master Benja when he was burning, or whether she set him on 
 fire ? It's dreadful to hear her, poor thing." 
 
 If ever a sudden change was seen in a woman, you might 
 have seen it then in Mrs. Darling. Her ruddy, good-humoured 
 countenance assumed the hue it had worn when shunning Mr. 
 Pym's look that night before the Carleton Arms — though for 
 the matter of that, he had equally shunned hers. 
 
 " I'll go to her," she said, presently. " Poor creature, she 
 must be quite mad ! I'll go and see what can be done for her. 
 Perhaps a strait-waistcoat will be necessary." 
 
 Accordingly Mrs. Darling made her way along the corridor. 
 Crouching against the nursery-door, as she turned the corner, 
 was what at first looked like a huge black balloon. It proved 
 to be the petticoats of her daughter, who appeared to be listen- 
 ing to something in the nursery. 
 
 " Charlotte ! " 
 
 ]\Irs. St. John lifted her scared face : a white face, not so 
 much of terror as of some great anguish, with wild eyes gazing 
 from it. Softly rising, she spoke in a whisper. 
 
 "I can hear his cries — Jiis. I heard them last night, all 
 night long." 
 
 Mrs, l3arling's heart leaped, as the saying runs, into her 
 mouth. Was she going mad— was every one going mad ? 
 
 " Listen ! There it is again ! " 
 
 " Charlotte, my dear child, you cannot be well this morning. 
 These troubles have unhinged you. When you " 
 
 Mrs. Darling suddenly stopped, and began to feel a little 
 "unhinged" herself. There certainly was a sound within the 
 room ; a repetition of faint whining or moaning. 
 
 " I knew they could never take him out of it ! '' whis- 
 pered Mrs. St. John. " Hark ! But his cries were louder 
 then." 
 
 Mrs. Darling looked at her. Could she be succumbing to 
 superstitious fears ? Mrs. Darling hardly thought it possible, 
 being herself so very practical a woman, in contradistinction to 
 an imaginative one. She no more believed in ghosts than she
 
 HONOUR'S RAVINGS. 179 
 
 did in tiie spirits recently become fashionable : and she opened 
 the nursery-door very gingerly and peeped in. 
 
 It was the dog Brave. Poor Brave must have found his way 
 into the room on the previous day, on the removal of the coflin, 
 and had been shut in ever since. Not barking, not making any 
 noise to attract attention, simply sitting there under the trestles, 
 whining and crying. There had been some trouble with Brave 
 since the death : he would find his way into the corridor, and 
 there howl and moan. 
 
 "See, Charlotte!" said Mrs. Darling, in reassuring tones. 
 " Poor dumb creature ! " 
 
 Deeming it well that her daughter sJiould see, as the most 
 effectual antidote to any such fears as those alluded to above, 
 she gently took her arm to pull her forward. Charlotte drew 
 back in sudden fear. 
 
 " I can't look ! " she gasped. " You dare not force me ! Is he 
 walking about with the lighted church ? " 
 
 " Oh, Charlotte, do, do just glance in ! You are not your- 
 self, I see " — and poor Mrs. Darling looked as terrified as her, 
 as she was looking at the door. " It is only poor Brave ; he 
 must have been shut in here." 
 
 She threw the door open, went in, and drove out the dog. 
 Mrs. St. John stood against the wall as it passed her, carefully 
 avoiding all sight of the chamber. Her mood changed to 
 anger when she saw Brave. 
 
 " I gave orders that he should not be allowed to enter the 
 house — that he should be kept chained up in the stables — sent 
 away — sold — anything. How dare they disobey me ! " 
 
 Mrs. Darling put her daughter's arm within her own and led 
 her to her own chamber. " I will see that the dog does not 
 annoy you again, Charlotte. Lie on the sofa and keep your- 
 self quiet : we shall be ready to go in half-an-hour." 
 
 Closing the door on Charlotte, she proceeded to Honour's 
 chamber at the end of the passage. The girl was in bed, lying 
 in all the restlessness of delirium. Her head was turning from 
 side to side, her face was flushed, her speech rambled. Mrs. 
 Darling involuntarily asked herself whether the whinings of the 
 dog through the night in the adjoining chamber, which must 
 have penetrated to Honour's ears, had contributed to this 
 increase of the malady. 
 
 No less than three maid-servants were posted round the bed, 
 staring, listening, whispering. I'he sound of Mrs. Darling's
 
 i3o ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 entrance seemed to attract the attention of the patient, who 
 looked momentarily towards her; but the ominously-bright 
 eyes evidently saw nothing : they turned to the opposite wall, 
 gazing, as it were, beyond it. The words that escaped from 
 her lips — not consecutively as they are about to be written, but 
 by fits and snatches— startled Mrs. Darling as few things had 
 ever startled her in all her life before. They were equivalent 
 to accusing her mistress of the jnurder of her step-son. 
 
 " He was the heir, you see, sir," she said, addressing some 
 imaginary personage ; " he was keeping her own flesh and blood 
 out of the inheritance. I saw all along that it was more than 
 she could bear. Don't you remember the scene that day when 
 you came home from London, and we took the two children to 
 meet you in the park? You took up Benja and carried him in, 
 but the little one cried and we left him. Don't you remember 
 it, sir? — she struck Benja to the ground and bruised him. You 
 said it was an accident, but I knew better. Oh, sir, why did 
 you leave him under her charge ? \\'asn't it as well to make 
 your will one way as the other? " 
 
 She was evidently in the past, and he whom she was address- 
 ing in imagination, was her dead master. 
 
 "It was so easy to accomplish ! " went on Honour, her head 
 turning faster than ever, but her eyes fixed as before. " It was 
 only the running up the stairs from the dining-room, where she 
 was shut in, and setting fire to him, and bolting the doors on 
 his screams, and running back again. Oh, why did you leave 
 him to her ? Didn't you remember that he was keeping out 
 Georgy ? She says she never left the dining-room, but don't 
 you believe her. She did, and I can speak to it." 
 
 Mrs. Darling, who had been slowly gathering her presence 
 of mind, and could not do it all at once, turned her ashy coun- 
 tenance on the gaping servants. Perhaps she hardly knew 
 what to say, or how to treat the ravings. 
 
 " It is a very bad case of brain fever," she said, striving to 
 speak with unconcern. " Her mind is quite gone, poor thing," 
 — as indeed it was. " I had a governess once who suffered 
 under an attack of the same. She persisted that I had killed 
 ray youngest daughter. Miss Rose Darling, and all the time the 
 child was alive and well at her elbow. The two cases seem 
 precisely similar. Go down, will you ? I think the room 
 ought to be kept quiet : and send one of the men instantly to 
 hasten Mr. Pyrn."
 
 HONOUR'S RAVINGS. i8i 
 
 They filed out of the room in obedience, and Mrs. DarHng 
 sat down to remain, thinking, poor woman, that her lines were 
 hard just now. She sat there until the doctor entered. 
 
 "Ah, ha," said he, "so the brain's touched in earnest. I 
 thought it would be so." 
 
 "She is quite deranged, Mr. Pym ; she has been saying the 
 strangest things." 
 
 " What things ? " 
 
 Mrs. Darling turned the question ofif. " All sorts of non- 
 sense," she said, coughing, " Mr. Pym, I think I shall stop 
 here and nurse her myself She is too ill to be left to 
 servants." 
 
 " And let Mrs. St. John go alone ? " 
 
 " I think I must. Prance will be with her, and she will have 
 her child. Perhaps in a few hours Honour may be better." 
 
 Mr. Pym had drawn hearer to the bed. Honour was 
 wandering again ; was repeating again the same " nonsense," 
 as Mrs. Darling had called it. Alas ! she must go on repeating 
 it until some turn to the malady came. The excited brain had 
 its task to perform, and could only go over it, over it, over it, 
 until better moments should dawn. The surgeon listened and 
 heard as much as Mrs. Darling had heard. 
 
 " Yes," said he, " it may be as well that you should nurse 
 her. Servants are such gossips." 
 
 " Three of them were in, listening, just now. Mr. Pym, how 
 is it that these false notions take possession of an invalid's 
 brain ? " asked Mrs. Darling. 
 
 Mr. Pym paused before he replied. " How is it that dreams 
 take possession of it ? " he returned. " The girl has had an 
 awful shock, and the brain is suffering. The imagination is 
 apt to be erratic at these times, indulging in absurd and 
 fantastic fancies." 
 
 " Very absurd and fantastic in this case ! " pronounced Mrs. 
 Darling. "Well, I shall stay with her. It must be either 
 myself or Prance. " 
 
 " Prance won't do," said the surgeon. " She and Honour 
 hate each other like poison." 
 
 The plan was carried out. Mrs. St. John, her child, and Prance 
 departed for the cottage ; Mrs. Darling remained at the Hall 
 in attendance on Honour ; and Mr. Pym did hardly anything 
 but dodge in and out of it all day, walking to and from Alnwick 
 at the pace of a steam-engine. Honour was dangerously ill.
 
 i82 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 In the dusk of evening, when the house was quiet, and Mrs. 
 Darling sat by the bedside, her brain ahiiost as busy as the one 
 she was there to guard, the thought arose to her that she would 
 put at rest (as far as it could be put to rest) a question that 
 troubled her. In closing the nursery-door quietly — as it had 
 been represented the unfortunate child did close it — would the 
 bolt slip into its groove? Was it possible that it could do so? 
 Mrs, Darling had pondered the doubt that day more than she 
 would have cared to tell. Rising from her chair, she was about 
 to cross the room when some one came in. 
 
 "Who's that?" sharply called out Mrs. Darling, somewhat 
 startled. 
 
 It was only one of the under-maids, bringing in some beef- 
 tea in a cup. '' How quietly you must have come up ! " 
 exclaimed Mrs. Darling. 
 
 " I have list shoes on, ma'am," replied the girl. 
 
 She put down the cup and advanced on tiptoe to take a 
 glance at Honour. The fever still continued, the brain was 
 still at work ; but just now the head was quiet. 
 
 " She seems a trifle better ! " cried the girl. 
 
 *' I fear not in mind," answered Mrs. Darling. " Her last 
 fancy seems to be that she set fire to the child, and then ran 
 away and left him." 
 
 " Poor creature ! Well, so in a manner she did, ma'am, for 
 it was through her want of caution that it happened." 
 
 The girl gazed a few minutes and went down. Mrs. Darling 
 — by the way, was that last assertion of hers a true one or a 
 flight of fancy? — listened to the receding footsteps. She 
 thought she heard them come back again, those or others, but 
 silence supervened, and she concluded she was mistaken. 
 
 Now or never ! She did want to try that door, and the 
 opportunity seemed favourable : for she would not for the whole 
 world, no, nor for ten worlds, suffer it to be known that any 
 doubt could enter her mind, or any one's mind, upon the 
 point. Quitting Honour's room, she stepped to the nursery- 
 door, and there — paused. 
 
 What feeling came over Mrs. Darling at the moment she 
 could never afterwards tell. Had she been of a superstitious 
 nature it might have been accounted for ; but she was not. 
 Some feeling or impulse, however, did cause her to walk away 
 from the door without entering, and go on to the dressing-room, 
 intending to see if she could try the experiment from that side.
 
 HONOUR'S RAVINGS. 183 
 
 As she quitted it she could have declared she heard a cliair 
 move within, only that she knew she must be mistaken. 
 
 She went with soft tread across the dressing-room carpet in 
 the twilight of the evening. The door stood half open ; to her 
 surprise ; for since the fatal night it had been kept rigidly shut. 
 She was about to pull it to, when it was closed from the other 
 side, pretty smartly. In her consternation she opened it at 
 once, and— stood face to face with Surgeon Pym. He had 
 been trying the experiment on his own score. 
 
 Their eyes met ; and it was curious to note the difference in 
 the demeanour of the two as they stood gazing at each other. 
 Mrs. Darling, agitated, nervous, almost terrified ; the surgeon, 
 collected, keen, perfectly self-possessed. She tried to frame an 
 excuse. 
 
 " I was going to look into the nursery, to see whether the 
 servants have set it to rights to-day. I fancy they have not." 
 
 "And I," said the surgeon, "was seeing whether the bolt 
 would slip if a person merely shut the door. I find it won't." 
 
 Honour Tritton's ravings, the effect of a diseased brain, 
 ceased with her recovery ; and there remained with her no 
 recollection whatever of having uttered them, for Mr. Pym 
 tested her on the point. With her restoration to reason, Mrs, 
 Darling was less confined, and she divided her time between 
 the Hall and the Cottage, but did not yet finally quit the 
 former. Mrs. Darling resolved to speak to her, and the 
 opportunity came. One evening when she Avas alone in 
 the drawing-room. Honour knocked at the door and came in. 
 The girl looked the wreck of her former self; thin, pale, 
 shadowy, her black gown seemed much too large for her, and 
 the dark circles under her eyes were excessively conspicuous 
 on her naturally light skin. 
 
 "Could I speak to you for a few minutes, ma'am?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Darling, a feeling of nervousness arising 
 within her at the request. " You had better sit down, Honour ; 
 you are weak still." 
 
 Honour obeyed. She had come to speak of her own 
 departure ; to thank Mrs. Darling for her care of her, and to 
 say that the sooner she was away now, the better. She thought 
 of going on the following day, or the day after, if Mrs. Darling 
 would allow it.
 
 l34 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Mrs. Darling heaved a sigh of reUef, perhaps she could 
 hardly tell why or wherefore. " I did not think you were 
 strong enough to go anywhere yet. But as you please. Are 
 you aware, Honour, what cruel things you said of your 
 mistress ? " she resumed, in low tones. 
 
 Honour looked up in genuine surprise, "/said cruel things, 
 ma'am ! What did I say ? " 
 
 " I hardly like to tell you what you said," replied Mrs. 
 Darling. "You accused her over and over again of having 
 set fire to the child and left him to burn to death. Were you 
 to say such words in your right senses, you might be in danger 
 of transportation for speaking them." 
 
 Honour burst into tears. She had no recollection whatever 
 of her fault, and humbly begged pardon for it. 
 
 "Of course we do not look upon you as responsible for 
 v.'hat you said," continued Mrs. Darling ; " the ravings of a 
 diseased mind go for nothing. But they are not the less un- 
 pleasant to hear, and your mistress feels enough grief from 
 this matter without its being unnecessarily added to. You, of 
 all persons, should be careful not to add to her sorrow. It 
 was only this very day, when we were speaking of Benja, that 
 she fervently exclaimed, if her whole fortune could bring him 
 back to life, it should be given. There are moments" — Mrs. 
 Darling dropped her voice as though she were speaking to her- 
 self, rather than to Honour — " when I have fancied she would 
 sacrifice even George's life, could that bring his brother back 
 again. Believe me, she regrets him as much as you can do." 
 
 Subdued, weak, humble. Honour could only give vent to' 
 excuses and penitent tears. She had never really suspecteil 
 her mistress, she said, and, indeed, she had never suspected 
 any one of her own good will ; it was her wicked thoughts that 
 would rise up in spite of her. Not her mistress, however ; if 
 she had indulged these thoughts, it was of Prance. It was 
 desperately wicked, she knew, but the boy's death seemed to 
 take her reason from her. She hoped Prance would not come 
 to hear of it ; and for herself, she would never, never harbour 
 such fancies again. 
 
 So Honour left Alnwick Hall. She had to go first of all to 
 Castle Wafer, Mr. St. John having sent for her. The fact was, 
 the occurrence had made a most startling and unhappy impres- 
 sion on the master of Castle Wafer. The account he had 
 received of it was a very partial one, and he naturally wished
 
 HONOUR'S RAVINGS. 185 
 
 for correct details. When the summons came, Honour had 
 flung up her hands in a sort of terror. How should she dare 
 to meet Mr. Isaac St. John, and proclaim to him personally 
 her wicked carelessness ? Mrs. Darling also had seemed 
 much put out : but there was no help for it, and she cautioned 
 Honour. 
 
 "Take care," she gravely said, "that not a hint of those 
 wicked and foolish suspicions is dropped to Mr. St. John." 
 
 In anything but an enviable frame of mind, did Honour enter 
 on the interview with Mr, St. John at Castle Wafer. He sat 
 on the sofa in his own sitting-room, his back propped up with 
 soft pillows, and Honour, whom he invited to a seat, sat in her 
 new mourning, and wept before him. The first timidity over, 
 she confessed the whole ; made, as it were, a clean breast of 
 it, and told how her own thoughtlessness, in leaving the child 
 alone with the lighted toy, had been the cause of the calamity. 
 Mr. St. John was painfully interested in the little coincidence 
 she mentioned — that the first idea of the toy, the lighted 
 church, had been gathered at the fair that was being held the 
 very day he came to Alnwick. It was at this point that 
 Honour burst into tears, which she was quite unable to control. 
 
 However Mr. St. John might have been disposed to condemn 
 the carelessness, he could only feel compassion for the sufferer. 
 She should never know another truly happy moment, she 
 sobbed, should never cease to reproach herself as long as life 
 should last. She gave herself the whole blame ; she said not 
 a word of the old doubts ; and when Mr. St. John questioned 
 her as to the fastening of the doors, she declared that she 
 could not tell herself how they had become fastened, but 
 mentioned the conclusion come to by the household and the 
 coroner. They decided that the little boy had himself fastened 
 the one ; and for the other, some thought it had never been 
 fastened at all ; only she. Honour, had fancied it in her flurry ; 
 others thought it must have bolted itself when the little boy . 
 shut it, and she could only suppose that it did so bolt. She 
 spoke of the great sorrow of her mistress, as testified to by 
 Mrs. Darling, and told how she had left the Hall because she 
 could not yet bear the sight of it : and not a whisper did she 
 breathe of the unseemly scene which had occurred on that 
 memorable afternoon. In short, it seemed that Honour was 
 striving to make amends for the harsh and unjustifiable words 
 she had used of her mistress in her delirium.
 
 i85 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Mr. St. John inquired whether she was going back to the 
 Hall. " Never, never ! " she answered ; she should take 
 service as far away from it as possible, where folks would not 
 point at her as having caused the death of an innocent child. 
 Not as a nurse — who would be likely to trust her in that 
 capacity now ? — but as a house or laundry maid. A moment's 
 deliberation with himself, and then Mr. St. John offered her a 
 service in his own household. One of the housemaids was 
 about to leave to be married ; if Honour would like the situa- 
 tion the housekeeper should engage her. 
 
 Again burst forth the tears. Not suppressed sobs this time, 
 but soft tears of gratitude. For there was a tone of compassion 
 in Mr. St. John's voice that found its way to the heart of the 
 unliappy woman ; none had addressed such to her since that 
 miserable day, the Eve of St. Martin ; and she could have been 
 his slave in all reverence for life. Thankfully did she accept 
 the offered situation ; and it was decided with the housekeeper 
 afterwards that she should enter upon it in a month's time, 
 when both health and spirits might be somewhat renewed. 
 
 Before the first week of that month had elapsed, Mr. St. 
 John made an effort, and went over to Alnwick. In his 
 courteous sympathy he deemed that a visit was due to Mrs. 
 Carleton St. John ; the more especially that he had not been 
 able to make it at the time, or to attend the funeral. There 
 were also certain little matters of business to be mentioned to 
 her, now that Cieorge was the heir, to whom he was also 
 guardian ; but without any of the additional power vested in 
 liim, as it had been in regard to Benja. 
 
 He went this time by rail. Brumm said so much of the 
 additional length of the journey by road in his master's present 
 weak state, that Mr. St. John yielded for once, and a compart- 
 ment was engaged, where he would be alone, with Brumm to 
 attend upon him. On arriving at Alnwick, they found Mrs. 
 Carleton St. John was still at her mother's cottage ; and to the 
 cottage Isaac went. 
 
 Had he arrived only a day later, he would not have seen her 
 whom he came to see. Mrs. Carleton St. John was on the 
 wing. She was starting for Scarborough that very evening, as 
 Mrs. Darling sharply expressed it, as if the travelling by night 
 did not meet her approbation ; but she had allowed Charlotte 
 to have her own way as a child, she whispered to Mr. St. John, 
 and Charlotte chose to have it still.
 
 HONOUR'S RAVINGS. 187 
 
 What struck Mr. .St. John more than anything else in this 
 visit, was the exceeding sfiliness that seemed to pervade Mrs. 
 Carleton St. John. She sat in utter quietness, her hands 
 clasped on her knee, her black dress falling around her slender 
 form in soft folds, the white crape lappets of her cap thrown 
 behind. The expression of her bent face was still, almost to 
 apathy ; her manner^ and voice were subdued. So young and 
 pretty did she look in her grief, that Mr. St. John's heart went 
 out to her in compassion. He saw a slight shiver pass through 
 her frame when she first spoke of Benja : she grieved for him, 
 she murmured ; and she told the tale of how she had struck 
 him that fatal afternoon — oh, if she could only recall that ! it 
 weighed so heavily upon her. Oh, if she could — if she could — 
 and Mr. St. John saw the fervour with which the wish was 
 aspirated, the drawn lines about the pretty but haggard mouth, 
 the hands lifted for once and clasped to pain— if she could 
 only recall him back to life ! 
 
 She wanted change, she said ; she was going to Scarborough. 
 George did not seem to grow strong again, and she thought it 
 might do him good ; he was fractious and ailing, and per- 
 petually crying for Benja. Mamma was angry at her travelling 
 by night, but no one but herself knew how long and tedious 
 her nights were ; she seemed to be always seeing Benja. When 
 she went to sleep she dreamt he was alive again, and to awake 
 up from that to the reality was more cruel than all. 
 
 Isaac St. John, as he sat and listened to the plaintive voice, 
 pitied her beyond everything. There had not been wanting 
 people, even within his small sphere of daily life, to comment 
 on the gratification it must be to Mrs. Carleton St. John (apart 
 from the loss of the child and its peculiar horror) to see her 
 own son the inheritor. Isaac St. John resentfully wished they 
 could see her and hear her now. He acquiesced in the expe- 
 diency of change, both for herself and the child, and warmly 
 urged her to exchange Scarborough for Castle Wafer. His 
 step-mother, Mrs. St. John, was there, and they would make 
 her so much more comfortable than she could be at any 
 watering-place. But he urged in vain. She thanked him for 
 his kindness, saying she would prefer to go to Scarborough 
 now, but would keep his invitation for a future opportunity. 
 
 To the business matters she declined to listen. If it was at 
 all necessary that he should discuss them, let it be with her 
 mamma; or perhaps with Mr. Drake the lawyer. Mr. Drake
 
 1 88 ST. MARTIN'S EVEl. 
 
 knew all about everything, she supposed ; and he would attend 
 on Mr. St. John if requested. 
 
 So, after a two hours' sojourn at the cottage, Isaac St. John 
 quitted it, and the following day he returned to Castle Wafer. 
 He had not mentioned that Honour was about to enter on 
 service at Castle Wafer. Upon Honour's name occurring in 
 conversation in connection with the accident on St. Martin's 
 Eve, Mrs. Carleton St. John had shown symptoms of excite- 
 ment : she wished Honour had died, she said, before she had 
 wrought such ill : and Isaac, perhaps feeling rather ashamed 
 to confess that his household was going to shelter her, let the 
 subject drop. 
 
 Mrs. St. John and the child started for Scarborough, Prance 
 and three or four other servants in attendance upon her. Not 
 Mrs. Darling. The younger lady had civilly but firmly declined 
 her mother's companionship. She would rather be alone, she 
 said, and Mrs. Darling yielded— as she had done all through 
 Charlotte's life. 
 
 But it appeared that Scarborough did not please her. She 
 had been in it little more than a week, when Mrs. Darling 
 heard that she had gone to some place in Westmoreland. 
 From thence, after another short sojourn, she made her way to 
 Dover. It was getting close to Christmas then, and Mrs. 
 Darling, feeling an uneasiness she could not well define, 
 hastened to her, under the pretext of accompanying her home. 
 She found Charlotte anything but benefited by her travelings, 
 if looks might be trusted, for she was more thin, more wan, 
 more haggard than before ; and George was ill still. 
 
 Whether George St. John had eaten too much at that 
 memorable birthday dinner, or whether the shock and horror 
 of seeing Benja, as he had seen him, was telling upon his 
 system, certain it was the child had declined from that night. 
 Mr. Pym had treated him for indigestion, and he seemed a little 
 better for a few days, but the improvement did not continue. 
 Never again was he the merry boy he had been : fractious, 
 irritable, and mourning incessantly for Benja ; his spirits failed, 
 his appetite would not return. He had not derived benefit 
 from the change of scene any more than his mother, and that, 
 Mrs. Darlinsr on her arrival saw. 
 
 " What can be the matter with him ? " was the first question 
 Mrs. St. John addressed to her mother, and the anxiety visible 
 in the wild eyes alarmed Mrs. Darling.
 
 HONOUR'S RAVINGS. 1S9 
 
 " Charlotte, calm yourself, my dear ; indeed there is no cause 
 for uneasiness. I think you have moved him about too much ; 
 children want repose at times as well as we do. The quiet of 
 the Hall and Mr. Pym's care will soon bring him round. We 
 will go back at once." 
 
 "i am not going back to the Hall," said Charlotte. 
 
 " Not going back ! " repeated Mrs. Darling. 
 
 " Not at present." 
 
 " My dear Charlotte, you must go back. How is the Hall 
 to get on at Christmas without you ? " 
 
 " Must ? " significantly returned Charlotte. " I am my o\Yn 
 mistress ; accountable to none." 
 
 " Of course, my love ; of course. But, Charlotte "^ — and 
 Mrs. Darling seemed unduly anxious— "it is right that you 
 should spend Christmas there. Georgy is the heir now." 
 
 " He is the possessor," said Charlotte, calmly. " He is the 
 possessor of Alnwick, he will be the inheritor of more; he will 
 be Sir George Carleton St. John — as his father would have 
 been had he but lived." 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Darling, stealing a side glance at her 
 daughter, who was resting her cheek upon her slender fingers, 
 her gaze fixed upwards. 
 
 " But, mamma, I wish now it were Benja ; I wish (ieorgy 
 was as he used to be. I think a complete change of scene 
 may do him good," she added after a pause, "and I shall take 
 him abroad : immediately : for perhaps a year." 
 
 Mrs. Darling stood aghast. " But, what's to become of the 
 Hall ? what's to be done with it ? " 
 
 "Anything," was the indifferent reply. "It is mine to do 
 what I choose with — that is, it's Georgy's — and who is to 
 question me ? Live in it yourself, if you like ; let it ; leave 
 servants in it; I don't care. Georgy is my only care now, 
 mamma, and I shall take him abroad to get him strong." 
 
 Yes, Alnwick Hall and its broad acres were George's now, 
 but they did not seem to have brought pleasure in their train. 
 Was it that the almost invariable law of nature was obtaining 
 in this case, and the apples, coveted, proved bitter ashes in 
 possession ? Charlotte St. John looked back to the days and 
 nights of warfare with existing things, to the rebellion of her 
 own spirit at her child's secondary position, to the vain, ardent 
 longing that he should be the heir and supplant Benja. Well, 
 she had her wish. But where was the pleasure she had looked
 
 igo ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 forward to as in a vision, where the triumph? It liad not 
 come ; it seemed to have vanished utterly and outwardly, even 
 as had poor Benja. What was, what could be, the cause for 
 this? 
 
 She crossed over' at once to the Continent, hoping there to 
 find relief for the new ailments of Georgy as for her own worn 
 spirits ; and Mrs. Darling went back to her cottage in dudgeon, 
 and then took wing to her mother's to spend Christmas. And 
 serva-nts alone reigned at Alnwick Hall. 
 
 CHAPTER XVni. 
 
 ADELINE DE CASTELLA. 
 
 Christmas came for other lands, just as surely as it did for 
 England ; and the young ladies of Madame de Nino's finishing 
 establishment at Belport were gathered round the schoolroom 
 stove on that festal morning. Rose Darling taking the best 
 place as usual ; and also, as usual, swaying all minds to her own 
 imperious will. Rose was in a vile humour ; believing herself 
 to be the worst-used mortal in the world. She had fully 
 reckoned on going home for Christmas — or at least into Berk- 
 shire ; and Mrs. Darling's excuses about the uncertainty of her 
 own movements only angered her the more. 
 
 " Don't bother here about your privileges and advantages ! " 
 she wrathfully exclaimed, elbowing the girls away from her, and 
 tossing back her shower of golden curls. " What do the 
 French know about keeping Christmas ? France is a hundred 
 years behind England in civilization, just as the French girls 
 are behind us." 
 
 "Well done, Rose !" cried Adeline de Castella. 
 
 " Adeline excepted, of course," went on Rose, addressing no 
 one in particular. " Why, the French don't know as much 
 as the use of the mistletoe ! — and our friends send us here to 
 be trained and educated ! No Christmas ! no holidays — except 
 a month in autumn, which you are not expected to take ! It 
 is a pernicious country ; an unnatural state of things ; and the 
 British government ought to interfere and forbid the schools to 
 receive English girls."
 
 ADELINE DE CASTELLA. 191 
 
 * "But don't the French keep Christmas ?" asked a new girl, 
 and a very stupid one, Grace Lucas. 
 
 " Bah ! " ejaculated Rose. " As if they kept anything except 
 the Jour de I'An ! " 
 
 " The what ?" timidly asked Grace Lucas. 
 
 " Qu'elle est bete ! " cried Rose in her careless manner. 
 
 "Have some consideration, Rose," spoke Adeline in French. 
 
 " Why, she has heard it fifty times ! " retorted Rose in 
 English. 
 
 " Every one is not so apt as you." 
 
 "Apt at what?" asked Rose fiercely, a glowing colom rising 
 to her face. Since the episode connected with Mr. Marl- 
 borough, Rose's conscience was prone to conjure up hidden 
 sarcasm in every sentence addressed to her. 
 
 " I meant at picking up French," laughed Adeline. " What 
 else should I mean ? " 
 
 "Oh, thank you," chafed Rose. "I understand." 
 
 " Don't be cross, Rose. Have I not elected to spend my 
 Christmas here, with you all ? You show me no gratitude." 
 
 " Vo7( can afford to laugh — and to make a merit of stopping 
 here," retorted Rose. " When in seven days from this you 
 leave for good ! " 
 
 " If Rose could only change places with you ! " interrupted 
 Mary Carr. 
 
 " Speak for yourself, if you please, Mary Carr," was Rose's 
 fiery answer: "who wants to change places with her? But, 
 Adeline, I do envy you the balls and gaiety between now and 
 a re me. 
 
 The Castella family must not be classed with the ordinary 
 run of people frequenting Belport. IMonsieur de Castella — in 
 his own family chiefly called Signor de Castella — was descended 
 from a noble Spanish family on the paternal side ; his mother 
 had been a proud and well-born Italian. His usual place of 
 residence was Paris. But some years previous to this present 
 time, symptoms of delicacy became apparent in Adeline ; the 
 medical men strongly recommended the seaside, and she was 
 brought to Belport. It appeared to agree with her so well, so 
 establish her health and strength, that Monsieur de Castella took 
 on lease one of the handsomest and largest houses in the town. 
 Sometimes he had to make long absences in Paris, in Spain, 
 and in Italy ; Madame de Castella always accompanied him, 
 and Adeline would then be left at Madame de Nino's. This
 
 192 ST. ^lARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 winter would probably be their last in Belport ; the summer 
 was to be spent at the French chateau of Madame de Castella's 
 mother, an English lady by birth ; and after that they intended 
 to resume their residence in Paris. They were very wealthy, 
 highly connected and considered, and Adeline was their only 
 child. There had been an elder girl, Maria, but she died : and 
 this made Adeline all the more precious to them. As you read 
 on, you will know her better — and love her. 
 
 She was now about to be introduced to the world. New 
 Year's Day was her birthday, when she would be eighteen ; and 
 I dare say you are aware that it is about the greatest fete the 
 French keep, always excepting All Saints' Day, Madame de 
 Castella had issued cards for an assembly in the evening, and 
 Adeline was to be introduced. The schoolgirls called it 
 Adeline's inauguration ball. 
 
 Amidst other hidden secrets, sedulously guarded from the 
 teachers, Madame de Nino's pupils were in possession of a 
 pack of what they called fortune-telling cards. They were not 
 playing cards, but thin, small, transparent squares, made from 
 the leaf of the sensitive-plant. On each square was a carefully 
 painted flower, purporting to be an emblem. Rose, hapjiy 
 love ; cross-of-Jerusalem, sorrow ; snowdrop, purity ; bachelor's- 
 button, vanity ; hyacinth, death ; and so on. Three or four of 
 these squares were placed on the palm of the hand, the flowers 
 downwards, so that one square could not be distinguished from 
 another. They would in most cases curl slightly and leap from 
 the hand ; but should any one adhere to it, it was deemed a 
 proof of affinity with the owner, a foreshadowing of her fate to 
 come. For instance : if it were the cross-of-Jerusalem that 
 remained, the holder was pronounced to be destined to sorrow ; 
 if the bachelor's-button, the girl's life was to be passed in 
 vanity. It was at the best but a silly pastime, meet only for 
 those silly girls ; but there are of those schoolgirls who, to this 
 hour, would confess to a superstitious belief in them, unexplain- 
 able alike to themselves and to any known law of reason. Else 
 why, they would ask, should one particular leaf have clung 
 always to Adeline de Castella, and been so singularly ex- 
 emplified in her destiny ? That it did cling to her is a fact : 
 otherwise, I should never have thought of noticing any pastime 
 so puerile. 
 
 The first time these cards were tried, the girls were in their 
 room, supposed to be in bed. Mam'selle Fifine had gone down
 
 ADELINE DE CASTELLA. 193 
 
 with the hght, and Rose had hghted one of her large wax 
 tapers, which she kept locked up from prying eyes. Adeline 
 had both her hands stretched out, three squares on each. 
 Five of the squares rolled off quickly, more quickly than usual ; 
 the sixth slightly fluttered, and then settled down, quiet and 
 passive on her palm. Janet Duff took it up at length, but 
 dropped it again as one startled. 
 
 " Oh ! it is bad ! " she said, in a whisper. 
 
 Mary Carr turned the square. It wa>s a French marigold. 
 
 " ' French marigold : unhappy love ; its end possible death,' " 
 read Janet Duff from the explanations. " It is about the 
 worst in the pack." 
 
 Some of the girls shivered — that dortoir was always cold. 
 Adeline laughed merrily. " It is only nonsense," she said: and 
 she spoke as she thought. 
 
 And the singular part was, that Adeline de Castella had 
 tried those cards since, a dozen times at least ; and this ill- 
 omened French marigold had always clung to her whenever it 
 was of those placed on her hand. The hyacinth had been 
 dreaded so much from the first, that Janet Duff took it out of 
 the pack. And the French marigold, so far as was seen, never 
 rested on any other hand than Adeline de Castella's. 
 
 " It is certainly singular," mused Adeline, when she tried her 
 fate at the cards for the last time before leaving school, and 
 the French marigold clung to her as usual. 
 
 New Year's Day came in : and with its evening a clash of 
 many carriages, impatient horses, and quarrelsome coachmen 
 filled the streets, for the gay world of Belport was flocking to 
 the house of Signor de Castella. 
 
 It was a brilliant scene, those reception-rooms, brilliant with 
 their blaze of light and their exotics. Adeline de Castella 
 stood by her mother. The guests had known and thought of 
 her but as a plainly attired, simple schoolgirl, and were not 
 prepared to recognize her as she stood before them in her 
 costly attire and wondrous beauty. Her robes of white lace, 
 flowing and elegant, sparkled with emeralds ; single chains of 
 emeralds encircled her neck, her arms, and confined in their 
 place the waves of her silken hair ; lustrous emeralds, heirlooms 
 of the ancient family of de Castella. Her features, pure and 
 regular as if chiselled from marble, were glowing with the 
 crimson flush of excitement, rendering more conspicuous her 
 excessive loveliness. 
 
 St. Martin's Eve, 1^
 
 194 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Oh, Adeline," whispered Mary Carr, when she could steal 
 a few words with her, " how beautiful you are ! " 
 
 " What ! have you turned flatterer too ! " 
 
 " Flattery — to you ! How mistaken they were to-night, when 
 they supposed Rose would outshine all ! If they could only 
 see you now ! " 
 
 Miss Carr brought her words and her breath to a standstill, 
 for, coming in at the door were Mr. and Mrs. Marlborough. 
 
 "Yes," said Adeline, answering her exclamation of astonish- 
 ment ; " mamma met them to-day, just as they arrived from 
 Paris, and made them promise to look in to-night. They are 
 on their road to England. Lord John Seymour is with them." 
 
 " What will Rose say? " ejaculated Mary Carr. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs, Marlborough, Adeline, and others were stand- 
 ing together when Rose came up. Rose was not aware in 
 whose presence she was, till she stood face to face with George 
 Marlborough, A random remark she had been about to make 
 to Adeline died upon her lips, and her face turned white. 
 Eleanor was crimson ; and there might have been an awkward 
 pause, but for the readiness of Mr. Marlborough. 
 
 " How do you do, Miss Darling?" he said, with a pleasant 
 smile. "Nearly frozen up with this winter cold? It has been 
 very severe in Paris." 
 
 Rose recalled her scattered senses, and began to talk with 
 him at random : but she barely exchanged courtesies with 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " Ellen," whispered Mr. Marlborough to his wife, later in the 
 evening, " may I dance a quadrille with her ? " 
 
 " How silly ! — to ask me that ! I think it is the best thing 
 you can do." But there was a shy, conscious blush on Mrs. 
 Marlborough's cheek, as she answered. Her husband saw it, 
 and went off laughing, and the next minute Rose was dancing 
 with him. 
 
 " Which of my presents do you admire most ? " asked 
 Adeline of Mary Carr, directing her attention to an extensive 
 display of articles ranged together in the card-room : all offer- 
 ings to her that day from friends and relatives, according to 
 French custom on New Year's Day. 
 
 " What a lovely little clock in miniature ! " exclaimed Rose 
 looking over Mary's shoulder. 
 
 " It is a real clock," said Adeline, " it plays the chimes at the 
 hours, and those are real diamonds. My grandmamma always
 
 ADELINE DE CASTELLA. 195 
 
 said she should give me something wortli keeijing on my 
 eighteenth birthday, and she sent me this. I am so sorry she 
 was not well enough to come to us for to-night ! Stay, I will 
 touch the spring." 
 
 As Adeline raised lier right hand hastily, anxious that Rose 
 and Mary Carr should hear the melodious chimes of this 
 ingenious ornament, the chains of her emerald bracelet caught 
 in the button of a gentleman's coat, who made one of the group 
 pressing round her. With a slight jerk she disentangled the 
 chain, but it brought away with it a flower he had held in his 
 hand. // 7cias a Frerich marigold ! 
 
 The brilliant hue deepened upon Adeline's cheek as she 
 looked at the flower. She turned and held it out to the owner. 
 
 He was a stranger, a young and most distinguished-looking 
 man, possessing in no common degree that air of true nobility 
 which can neither be concealed nor assumed. His countenance 
 was one of rare beauty, and his eyes were bent with a pleasant 
 earnest expression of admiration upon Adeline. You have met 
 liim before, reader, but Adeline had not. 
 
 She addressed an apology to him, as she restored the flower, 
 speaking intuitively in English : it required not an introduction 
 to know that that tall, high-bred man was no Frenchman. He 
 was answering a few words of gallantry, as he received it — that 
 the fair hand it had been in invested the flower with an extrinsic 
 interest — when M. de Castella came into the circle, an aged 
 man by his side, 
 
 "Adeline," he said to his daughter, " have you forgotten your 
 old friend, the Baron de la Chasse ? " 
 
 With an exclamation of pleasure, Adeline held out her hand. 
 She had been so much with the English, that she had fully 
 acquired their habit of hand-shaking. The old baron did not 
 seem to understand her, but he took her hand and placed it 
 within his arm. They moved away, and there was a general 
 breaking up of the group. 
 
 "Lottie Singleton," began Rose, "do you know who that 
 handsome man is ? " 
 
 "Handsome!" returned Miss Singleton. "Everybody's 
 handsome with you. I call him old and ugly." 
 
 "I don't mean the French baron. That distinguished- 
 looking Englishman with the marigold." 
 
 " He ! I know nothing of him. He came in with the Max- 
 wells. I saw Sir Sandy introduce him to Madame de Castella."
 
 196 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Where could he have found that French marigold at this 
 season of the year ? " wondered Rose. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Maxwell has all sorts of odd flowers in that box 
 of hers, four feet square, which she calls her conservatory," 
 returned the archdeacon's daughter. " He must have found it 
 there." 
 
 " Lord John," cried Rose, summarily arresting Lord John 
 Seymour, who was passing, and whom she had never seen but 
 once in her life, and that months before, " who is that hand- 
 some man I saw you talking with just now? " 
 
 "It is my cousin's husband, Miss Darling," lisped Lord 
 John, who had an impediment m his speech. " Young Marl- 
 borough." 
 
 " I don't speak of him^' cried Rose, impatiently, an associa- 
 tion dyeing her cheeks. "A tall, pale man, features very 
 refined." 
 
 " You must mean St. John." 
 
 " Who ? " repeated Rose. 
 
 " Frederick St. John. Brother to St. John of Castle Wafer." 
 
 Rose Darling drew a deep breath in her utter astonishment. 
 " And so that's Frederick St. John ! 1 have heard of him and 
 his beauty." 
 
 "He is handsome," assented Lord John, "and he's more 
 pleasing than handsome. Fred St. John's one of the best 
 fellows going. We were together at Christchurch." 
 
 " Is he staying at Belport?" 
 
 " Only passing through, he tells me. He has been dining 
 at the Maxwells' and they brought him here this evening." 
 
 '■I wish you'd introduce him to me." 
 
 (" Well done. Rose," thought Mary Carr, who was near.) 
 
 "With pleasure," replied Lord John : and he offered his arm 
 to Rose. 
 
 " No," said Rose, in her changeable, capricious, but most 
 attractive manner, withdrawing her own as soon as she had 
 taken it, " I think I'll go up to him myself We are relatives, 
 you know." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Lord John. 
 
 "Connections, at any rate," concluded Rose. 
 
 She chose a moment when Mr. St. John was alone, and ap- 
 proached him. Beginning the self-introduction by holding out 
 her hand. Mr. St. John looked surprised. 
 
 "You don't know me," said Rose. " Lord John Seymour
 
 ADELINE DE CASTELLA. 197 
 
 offered to introduce you to me, but I said it was not needed 
 between relatives. I have heard a great deal of Frederick 
 St. John : we are cousins in a degree, you know. I am Rose 
 Darling." 
 
 The name did not recall any association to Mr. St. John, 
 He stood smiling on the bright girl before him, with her sunny 
 blue eyes and her mass of golden hair. 
 
 " You forget, I see, and I must be more explanatory. j\Iy 
 half-sister, Charlotte Norris, married Mr. Carleton St. John. 
 Mamma saw you recently at Alnwick Hall. My brother Frank 
 was there." 
 
 His answer was to take both Rose's hands into his, as an 
 apology for his stupidity, and assure her that he was proud and 
 pleased to find such a cousin. Rose remained talking to him. 
 
 " What a dreadful thing it was, that little boy's death ! " she 
 exclaimed. " I had heard of him often ; little Benja St. John ! 
 And to be burnt to death ! — oh, it was terrible ! AMio was in 
 fault ? " 
 
 " The nurse. She left him alone with a paper toy that had 
 a lighted candle within it, and by some means he set himself 
 on fire. It was at his funeral that I met Captain Darling." 
 
 " So much about the accident, mamma has told me in her 
 letters ; but particulars she has given none," said Rose. " It 
 is too shocking a thing to write about, she says. Poor little 
 fellow ! I wish he had been saved. What do you think of 
 Charlotte ? " 
 
 " Of Mrs. Carleton St. John ? I never saw her. She did 
 not appear the day of the funeral. The child's sad death has 
 had a great effect upon her, I hear ; both on her health and 
 spirits. She has left the Hall for a time, and is travelling." 
 
 "/know that," returned Rose with emphasis, in which there 
 was a world of resentment. '•' Charlotte has been whirling 
 about from place to place like a troubled spirit. It has kept 
 mamma in a most unsettled state, and prevented her having 
 me over for Christmas. I was so mad when I found I was 
 not to go home ! Such a shame, you know, keeping me at 
 school ! I shall be nineteen next birthday. We have had to 
 give way to Charlotte all our lives." 
 
 Mr. St. John smiled on the prett}', pouting, rebellious face. 
 " I fear your sister has been grievously shocked by the death," 
 he said. " Change of scene may be absolutely requisite for 
 her."
 
 198 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Well then, all I can say is, that it is most unusual, for it is 
 not in Charlotte's nature to be much affected by any earthly 
 thing. She is apathetic to a degree. Of course, she could not 
 help being shocked and grieved at the death ; but I don't 
 understand its making this lasting impression on her and affect- 
 ing her health, as mamma says it does. And now that her son 
 is the heir — you are thinking me hard and cruel to say such 
 things, Mr. St. John," broke off Rose, '■ but you don't know- 
 Charlotte as I do. I am certain that the succession of her own 
 child, George, has been to her a long day-dream, not the less 
 cherished from its apparent impossibility." 
 
 " I think you don't regard your sister with any great degree 
 of affection. Miss Darling," Mr. St. John ventured to say, 
 smiling on her still. 
 
 " I don't, and that's the truth," candidly avowed Rose. '•' If 
 you only knew how mamma has made us bend to Charlotte 
 and her imperious will all our lives, you wouldn't wonder at 
 me. I was the only one who rebelled; I would not; and to 
 tell you a secret, I believe that's why mamma sent me to 
 school." 
 
 The strains of music warned Mr. St. John that he must listen 
 to no more ; and, as Rose was herself led away, she saw him 
 dancing with Adeline. He was with her a great deal during 
 the rest of the evening. 
 
 "The play has begun, Adeline," whispered Rose when she 
 and Mary Carr were leaving. 
 
 "What play?" 
 
 " You are already taken with this new stranger : I can see it 
 in your countenance : and he with you. What think you of 
 the episode of the French marigold ? Rely upon it, that man, 
 Frederick St. John, will exercise some powerful influence over 
 your future life." 
 
 " Oh Rose, Rose ! " remonstrated Adeline, her lips parting 
 with merriment, " we are not all so susceptible to ' influence ' 
 as you." 
 
 " We must all fall under it once in our lives," rejoined Rose, 
 unheeding the reproof " Don't forget my counsel to you here 
 after, Adeline. Beware of this stranger : the French marigold 
 is an emblem of unhappy love." 
 
 Adeline de Castella laughed : a slighting, careless, triumphant 
 laugh of disbelief : laughed aloud in her pride and power, as 
 she quitted Rose Darling's side, on her way to play her brilliant
 
 ADELINE DE CASTELLA. 199 
 
 part in the crowd around her. It was spring-time with her 
 then. 
 
 There was a singular fascination attaching to her, this child 
 of many lands. It is no fable to call her such. England, 
 France, Spain, Italy ; it was singular that she should be, through 
 her grandparents, a descendant of all. But her nature was 
 essentially English. Her rare beauty of form and feature is 
 seldom found united with brilliancy of complexion, as it was 
 in her, save in the patrician daughters of our own land : and 
 the retiring, modest sweetness of her manners, their graceful 
 self-possession, were English to the core. A stranger could 
 have taken her to belong to no other country, and her perfect 
 knowledge of the language, the absence of all foreign accent, 
 would contribute to the delusion. She had been familiar with 
 it from her infancy : Madame de Castella, speaking it herself 
 as a native, took care of that. She had placed English nurses 
 about her children ; and subsequently an English governess, 
 a lady of good birth and breeding but fallen fortunes, had 
 taken charge of them until Maria de Castella's death. It was 
 from this lady that Adeline especially learnt to appreciate and 
 love the English character ; insensibly to herself, her own was 
 formed after the model. In short, Adeline de Castella, in spite 
 of her name and her mixed birth, was an English girl. 
 
 A month or two rolled away. Adeline de Castella paid an 
 occasional visit to her old schoolfellows at Madame de Nino's ; 
 but her time w^as taken up with a continuous scene of gaiety 
 and visiting. Balls, theatres, soirees — never was she in bed 
 before two or three o'clock in the morning, and sometimes it 
 was later than that. Madame de Castella, still a young woman 
 in every sense of the word, lived but for the world. The school- 
 girls noticed that Adeline wore a pale, wearied look, and one 
 afternoon that she came in, she couglied frightfully. 
 
 "That's like a consumptive cough!" exclaimed Rose, with 
 her usual want of consideration. 
 
 " I have coughed a great deal lately," observed Adeline ; " and 
 coming in from the cold air to the atmosphere of your stifling 
 stove, has brought it on now." 
 
 No one, however, thought anything serious of the cough, or 
 the weariness. But that time was to come. 
 
 It was Ash-Wednesday : and Mary Carr was invited to spend 
 the day at Signor de Castella's. Madame de Castella had 
 given a fancy-dress ball the previous Monday night, Lundi gras.
 
 200 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Rose and Mary had been invited to it, but Madame de Nino 
 refused the invitation for them, point-blank, which nearly drove 
 Rose wild with exasperation. After church, one of the servants 
 attended Miss Carr to Madame de Castella's — for I suppose you 
 know that in France a young unmarried lady never goes out alone. 
 
 The house seemed to be in some extraordinary commotion. 
 Servants ran hither and thither with a look of consternation on 
 their faces, and Madame de Castella, when Mary reached her 
 presence, was walking about in her dressing-gown, sobbing 
 hysterically, her breakfast cold and untouched at her side, and 
 her maid, Susanne, standing by her. 
 
 "What is the matter?" cried Mary, in terror. 
 
 " Oh, it is dreadful ! " ejaculated Susanne, by way of answer. 
 " Unhappy Mademoiselle Adeline ! " 
 
 " She is dying ! " sobbed Madame de Castella. " My darling 
 child ! my only child ! She is dying, and I am the cause. 
 Heaven forgive me ! " 
 
 " Oh, Susanne ! " exclaimed Miss Carr, turning to the maid, 
 " what is it all ? " 
 
 Susanne and Madame explained between them, both weeping, 
 the latter violently. 
 
 They were engaged, on the previous night, ATardi gras, to 
 " assist " at the crowning ball of the Carnival ; but when it 
 became time to dress, Adeline felt so ill and weary that she gave 
 up the task in despair. Madame de Castella urged her to exert 
 herself and shake the illness off, but the Signor interfered, and 
 said Adeline had better go to bed. And to bed she went, at 
 nine o'clock. Madame departed at ten for the ball, but came 
 home before twelve, anxious about Adeline. She went into the 
 latter's bedroom, and found her coughing violently, with every 
 appearance of serious illness upon her. Adeline could say 
 nothing, except that she had coughed like that for many nights. 
 Terror-stricken, the unhappy lady alarmed the household, and 
 the medical attendant was sent for. He came at once, aroused 
 out of his slumbers. 
 
 He thought consumption had set its seal upon Adeline. The 
 seeds of it were, no doubt, inherent in her constitution, though 
 hitherto unsuspected, and the gay scenes she had indulged in, 
 that winter, had brought them forth : the exposures to the night 
 air, to heat and cold, the thin dresses, the fatigue, and the 
 broken rest. He did not say she would not be restored to 
 health ; but he wished for a consultation.
 
 ADELINE DE CASTELLA. 20T 
 
 So, when the early hours gave place to day, the faculty were 
 called together, both French and English. They said just what 
 the family doctor had said, and no more. 
 
 " I suppose I may not ask to see Adeline," said Mary Carr, 
 when she had learnt these particulars. 
 
 " Not for the world," interposed the lady's-maid. "Perfect 
 quiet is ordered. Mademoiselle has now a blister on her chest, 
 and a sick-nurse is with her." 
 
 But, just then, Louise, Adeline's maid, came into the room, 
 with her young lady's love to Miss Carr, and an inquiry why she 
 was so long going up to see her. 
 
 " There ! " sobbed Madame de Castella, " they have told her 
 you are here. Just go to her for five minutes. I rely upon you 
 not to stay longer." 
 
 Mary Carr followed Louise into Adeline's room, and went on 
 tiptoe to her bedside. The tears came into her eyes when she 
 saw her lying there, so pale and wan. 
 
 "So their fears have infected you, Mary!" was her salutation, 
 as she looked up from the pillow, and smiled. "Is it not a 
 ridiculous piece of business altogether ? As if no one ever had 
 a cough before ! Do you know we had half-a-dozen doctors 
 here to-day ? " 
 
 "Susanne said there had been a consultation." 
 
 " Yes, I could scarcely help laughing. I told them all it was 
 very ridiculous : that beyond the cough, which is nothing, and 
 a little fatigue from the pain in my side, I was no more ill than 
 they were. Dr. Dorre said it was his opinion also, and that I 
 should outlive them all yet." 
 
 " I hope and trust you will, Adeline ! Is that the nurse ? " 
 
 " A sick-nurse they have sent in. She is English, and accus- 
 tomed to the disease. Her name's Brayford. You know con- 
 sumption is common enough in your island." 
 
 Mary Carr thought then— thinks still— that it was a grievous 
 error, their suffering Adeline to know the nature of the disease 
 they dreaded. It was Madame de Castella who betrayed it, in 
 her grief and excitement. 
 
 "There is so much more fuss being made than is necessary," 
 resumed Adeline. " They have put a blister on my chest, and 
 I am to lie in bed, and live upon slops. I dislike slops." 
 
 " Is your appetite good ? " asked Mary. 
 
 " I have not any appetite," was Adeline's reply. " But in 
 illness we fancy many thmgs, and Louise would have brought
 
 202 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 me up anything I asked for. There's no chance of it, with this 
 nurse here. She seems tiresomely particular, and determined to 
 obey orders to the letter. I asked her, just before you came in, 
 for some wine-and-water, I almost prayed for it, I was so pain- 
 fully thirsty. I could have coveted that three-sous beer some 
 of the English girls at school are so fond of" 
 
 " Did she let you have it?" 
 
 " No. She told me she would not give me a drop of wine if 
 I paid her for it in gold. I cried about it, I was so disappointed 
 and thirsty. What with the flurry and excitement there has 
 been all the morning, and, — papa and mamma's anxiety, my 
 spirits were low, and I actually cried. But she would not 
 give it me. She brought me some toast-and-water, and said 
 she was going to make me something nice, better than wine. 
 There she is, coddling at it over the fire — very nice I dare 
 say it is ! " 
 
 Mrs. Brayford came forward, and whispered Miss Carr 
 to take her leave. Talking was bad for Mademoiselle de 
 Castella. 
 
 *' Farewell, dearest Adeline ! I shall soon come to see you 
 again. I know I shall find you better." 
 
 She was half-way across the room when Adeline called to her. 
 The nurse, who was again leaning over her saucepan, looked up, 
 a remonstrance in her eye if not on her tongue, but Miss Carr 
 returned. 
 
 "Mary," she whispered, "go in to mamma, assure her, con- 
 vince her, that I am not so ill as she fears : that it is her love for 
 me which has magnified the danger." 
 
 " Oh, it's nothing," cried Rose Darling, slightingly, when Miss 
 Carr carried the tale of Adeline's illness back to school. " She 
 will soon be well." 
 
 " Or die," said Mary Carr. 
 
 " Die ! You are as absurd as the French doctors, Mary. As 
 if people died of a little night visiting ! I wish they would let 
 )fie run the risk !" 
 
 " If you had seen the house to-day, and Madame de Cas- 
 tella " 
 
 "I am glad I did not," interrupted Rose ; " such scenes are 
 not to my taste. And nothing at all to judge by. The French 
 are always in extremes — ecstasies or despair. So much the 
 better for them. They feel the less." 
 
 "That is a harsh remark, if intended to apply to Madame de
 
 ADELINE DE CASTELLA. 203 
 
 Castella," observed Miss Cam " More intense grief I never care 
 to witness." 
 
 " No doubt. As intense as it is in her nature to feel ; and 
 shown as the French always do show it, in ravings and hysterics. 
 But I can tell you one thing, Mary Carr, that the only grief to 
 be feared, that which eats into the heart, and tells upon it, is 
 borne in silence ! " 
 
 What a remark from Rose Darling ! 
 
 Adeline de Castella grew gradually better ; apparently quite 
 well. But the cold winds and frosts of winter continued that 
 year very late, even to the end of April, and for all that period 
 she was kept a close prisoner to the house. The medical men 
 recommended that she should spend the following winter in a 
 warmer climate. It was therefore decided that the summer 
 should be passed at the Chateau de Beaufoy, as had been pre- 
 viously agreed upon, and, with the autumn, they would go 
 south. 
 
 A new rumour reached the schoolgirls — that Adeline was 
 about to be married. It was brought to them by Madeleine de 
 Gassicourt, and her friends were intimate with the Castellas. 
 
 That was a singular year, so far as weather went. Frost and 
 snow, drizzling rain, bleak and biting winds, alternated with each 
 other to the beginning of May : there had been no s])ring ; but, 
 with that month, May, there came in summer. It was hotter 
 than it often is in July. And this hot weather lasted for several 
 months. 
 
 It was the second day of this premature summer, and the 
 usual Thursday holiday at Madame de Nino's. The girls were 
 in the inner court. Rose in a furious state of indignation, and 
 ready to quarrel with every one, because she had not been 
 fetched out, when the roll of carriage-wheels was heard, and 
 they peeped through a slit in the great wooden door so as to 
 get a glimpse of the gate of the outer courtyard. 
 
 Springing down the steps of the carriage, came Adeline de 
 Castella, followed by her mother. A shout of delight arose, 
 excited fingers pushed back the great lock, and a group burst 
 into the outer courtyard. Adeline ran towards them, as de- 
 lighted as they were. Madame de Castella, with an amused 
 laugh and a pleasant word, passed on to the apartments of 
 Madame de Nino, and Mademoiselle Henriette ordered forth 
 Julie, and had the door double-locked.
 
 204 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Adeline looked infinitely beautiful : for though the face had 
 little more colour in it than there is in Parian marble, the 
 features retained all their exquisite contour, the flowing hair 
 its silky waves, the dark-brown, lustrous eyes their sweet and 
 sad expression. In the midst of Adeline de Castella's brilliant 
 loveliness, there was, and always had been, a peculiar expres- 
 sion of sadness pervading her countenance. It never failed to 
 strike on the notice of the beholder, investing such a face as 
 hers with a singular interest, but it was more than usually 
 observable since her illness. Was it that the unearthly part of 
 her, the spirit, conscious of and mourning for what was in 
 store for her, cast its shadow upon her features? The girls 
 crowded round silently to look at Adeline's teeth, for one day, 
 during the time she lay ill, Charlotte Singleton had said that 
 the transparent teeth of Adeline de Castella were an indication 
 of a consumptive tendency, and the girls could not agree 
 amongst themselves whether they were so very transparent. 
 
 " .So I have come to see you at last," began Adeline, as she 
 sat down with her two friends. Rose and Mary, on the bench 
 outside the schoolroom windows. " What hot weather has 
 come in all at once ! " 
 
 " Adeline, how long your illness has been ! We heard you 
 were going to Nice." 
 
 " Not until autumn. And I don't know whether it will be 
 Nice." 
 
 "There's Julie!" cried Rose, springing up. "Julie, who's 
 fetched ? " . 
 
 " Pas vous, mademoiselle," answered the servant, laughing 
 at Rose's anxiety. 
 
 "Ah bah! Adeline, we have heard something else. Ah! 
 you know what I mean. Is it true?" 
 
 " I believe it is," she answered, a faint blush upon her face, 
 and a careless smile. 
 
 " Is he handsome?" continued Rose. Of course the first 
 thought that would arise to her. 
 
 " I have never seen him." 
 
 " Oh, Adeline ! " uttered Mary Carr, involuntarily, whilst 
 Rose stared with unqualified amazement. 
 
 " Not yet. He comes from Paris this week to pay us a 
 visit." 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 " The Baron de la Chasse. Do you recollect seeing, on my
 
 ADELINE DE CASTELLA. 205 
 
 ball night, an old gentleman who remained most of the evening 
 by the side of papa ? " 
 
 " Yes. Well ? " answered Rose, impatiently. 
 
 " It seems he made overtures then to papa for my hand, 
 though I did not know it, and " 
 
 " It is a sin, an unholy thing, to sacrifice you to an old 
 man ! " interrupted Mary Carr, starting up in her sharp dis- 
 appointment. " Why, his sands of life must be well-nigh run 
 out ! " 
 
 "A moment, Mary," rejoined Adeline, calmly laying her 
 hand upon Miss Carr's arm : " who is hasty now ? That old 
 man's sands are run out. He died soon after he had played 
 his part in that festal night, which he had come down from 
 Paris purposely to join in. He and papa were old and very 
 dear friends ; closer friends it would not be possible to con- 
 ceive, though there was a difference of twenty years in their 
 ages. His nephew inherits his fortune and title, and it is for 
 him they destine me." 
 
 " How old is he ? " inquired Rose. 
 
 *' I have not asked," said Adeline. " Mamma says he is 
 good-looking. It appears that this scheme of uniting the 
 families has been a project of years, though they never told me. 
 Had my sister lived, the honour was to have fallen to her." 
 
 " I hope you will be happy," observed Miss Carr. 
 
 " Thank you, Mary. But you speak with hesitation." 
 
 " Not as to the wish. The hope might be more assured if 
 you already knew, and loved, him who is to be your husband. 
 It is a great hazard to promise to marry one whom we have 
 never seen," 
 
 " It is the way these things are managed in France," said 
 Adeline. 
 
 " And the cause that such doubtful felicity condescends to 
 alight on a French mhiage" broke forth Rose, who had been 
 temporarily silent. " The wives make it out in their intrigues, 
 though. It is a dangerous game, Adeline. Take care." 
 
 "I hope you do not consider it necessary to warn Wd? against 
 such danger," exclaimed Adeline, the crimson flying to her 
 cheeks. 
 
 "No; for you have not a particle of the French nature 
 about you," fearlessly returned Rose. "To you, strong in 
 right principle, in refinement of feeling, it can bring only 
 suffering — a yearning after what must never be."
 
 2o6 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 "Englishwomen do not always marry where they love," 
 mused Adeline. 
 
 " Seldom or never," answered Rose. " With them the 
 passion is generally over. They go more into society, have 
 opportunities of mixing freely, as girls, with the other sex, 
 which you have not, and so the years pass, and by the_ time 
 their marriage comes, the heart is at rest ; its life has left it." 
 
 " Then their marriage, even by your own showing, seems to 
 be much on a par with what mine will be." 
 
 "Their marriage is, Adeline, but their love is over, yours has 
 to come. There lies the difficulty : and the danger." 
 
 "Where did you get all these wise ideas from?" inquired 
 Adeline, much amused. 
 
 " I'm not an idiot," was Rose's answer. "And I am apt to 
 speak freely when I feel disappointed. I thought you would 
 be sure to marry an Englishman. You have often said so, and 
 you admire the English so much more than you do the French. 
 You remember that handsome Englishman, of French-marigold 
 memory ? I set it down in my mind that your destiny and his 
 were to be linked together." 
 
 "You have set many things down in your mind. Rose, that 
 never had place out of it," retorted Adeline, vv'ith a merry 
 laugh. " I have not seen him since that night, and probably 
 never shall see him again." 
 
 " Mademoiselle Rose Darling," exclaimed Clotilde, putting 
 her head out at the schoolroom window. 
 
 " Oh the joy ! " cried Rose, as she flew away. '•' I know it's 
 the Singletons." 
 
 The Baron de la Chasse arrived from Paris, and was betrothed 
 to Adeline de Castella. A small circle of friends were invited 
 to meet him on the evening of the betrothment, and Adeline 
 did not forget a promise she had made to invite Rose and 
 Mary Carr. 
 
 A man of thirty years, of middle height, and compact, well- 
 made figure ; pleasing features, regular in their contour ; auburn 
 hair, curly and luxuriant by nature, but sheared off to bristles ; 
 yellow whiskers, likewise sheared, and a great fierce yellow 
 moustache with curled corners. Somehow Rose, when Adeline 
 said he was good-looking, had pictured to herself atall, hand- 
 some man : she caught sight of the cropped hair and the 
 moustache, and went through the introduction with her hand- 
 kerchief to her mouth, sphtting with laughter. Yet there was
 
 ADELINE DE CASTELLA. 207 
 
 no mistaking the baron for anything but a gentleman and a 
 high-bred man. 
 
 " Mary !" whispered Rose, when she found the opportunity, 
 " what a sacrifice for Adehne ! " 
 
 " How do you mean ? Domestic happiness does not He in 
 looks. And if it did, the baron's are not so bad." 
 
 " But look at his sheared hair, and those frightful mous- 
 taches ! Why does he not cut the ends off, and dye them 
 brown ? " 
 
 " Perhaps he is afraid of their turning green — if he has read 
 'Ten Thousand a Year.' " 
 
 " Oh, Adeline ! Adeline ! I wonder if she is really betrothed 
 to him ? " 
 
 " That's a superfluous wonder of yours, Rose," said Mary 
 Carr. " The white wreath is on her head, and the betrothal 
 ring on her finger." 
 
 " If a shaven goat — and that's what he is — put the ring upon 
 mine, I should look out for some one else to take it off again," 
 retorted Rose. " Dear Adeline ! " she continued, as the latter 
 advanced, "let me see your ring." 
 
 Adeline drew off her glove and her ring together. 
 
 " You should not have taken it from your finger," remarked 
 Mary Carr. " We hold a superstition in Holland — some do — 
 that a betrothal ring, once removed from the finger, will never 
 be exchanged for a nuptial one." 
 
 " Sheer nonsense, like most other superstitions," said Adeline; 
 and her perfect indifference of manner proved that no love had 
 entered into her betrothal — as, indeed, how should it ? 
 
 " What had you both to do ? " 
 
 " Only sign some writings, and then he placed the ring on my 
 finger. Nothing more." 
 
 " Except a sealing kiss," said Rose, saucily. 
 
 The colour stole over Adeline's face. Even her fair open 
 brow, as it met the chaplet of white roses, became flushed. 
 
 " Who but you. Rose, would dream of these vulgar fiimiliar- 
 ities?" she remonstrated. "Amongst the French, they would 
 be looked upon as the very essence of bad taste." 
 
 ^^ Taste. z^' ejaculated Rose, contemptuously. "If you loved, 
 you would know better. Wait until you do, Adeline, and then 
 remember my words — and yours. It does not require much 
 time for love to grow, if it will grow at all," she continued, in 
 that half-abstracted manner which was now frequent with her —
 
 2o8 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 as if she were communing with herself, rather than talking to 
 another. 
 
 " Probably not," remarked Adeline, with indifference. "But 
 even you, Rose, susceptible as you are known to be, will 
 scarcely admit that a few hours are sufficient to call it forth." 
 
 "Nor a' twelvemonth either, situated as you and he are," 
 replied Rose, vehemently. " The very fact of being expected 
 and required to love in any given quarter, must act as a sure 
 preventive." 
 
 M. de la Chasse drew up, and entered into conversation with 
 them. He appeared a sensible, agreeable man, at home in all 
 the polite and literary topics of the day. In his manner towards 
 Adeline, though never losing the ceremonious politeness of a' 
 Frenchman, there was a degree of gallantry (I don't know any 
 better word : the French would say emprcssement) not unpleasing 
 to witness, and, Rose thought, he had a large share of vanity. 
 But where you would see one of his nation superior to him, 
 you might see ninety-nine inferior. 
 
 " It may be a happy marriage after all, Rose," observed Miss 
 Carr, when they were once more alone 
 
 " Possibly. If she can only induce him to let his hair grow, 
 and to part with those yellow tails." 
 
 " Be serious if you can," reproved Mary Carr. " He seems 
 to be in a fair way to love Adeline." 
 
 "He admires Adeline," dissented Rose; "is proud of her, 
 and no doubt excessively gratified that so charming a girl should 
 fall to his lot without any trouble on his part. But if you come 
 to speak of love, it sets one wondering how much of that enters 
 into the composition of a French husband." 
 
 No shadow, or doubt of the future, appeared that night to 
 sit upon the spirit of Adeline de Castella. There was a radiant 
 look in her countenance, rarely seen ; hiding, for the moment, 
 that touching expression of sorrow and sadness, so natural to it. 
 As the betrothed of a few hours, in a few months to be a wife, 
 she was the worshipped idol of those around her, and this called 
 forth what latent vanity there was in her heart, and she was 
 happy. She could only think it a great thing to be an engaged 
 girl. All do. Why should Adeline de Castella be an 
 exception ? 
 
 How little did she know, or think, or suspect, the true nature 
 of the contract she had that day made in her blindness ! — what 
 it involved, what it was to bring forth for her !
 
 ADELINE DE CASTELLA. " 209 
 
 The Chateau de Beaufoy, formerly belonging to the Chevalier 
 de Beaufoy, was now the property and residence of his widow. 
 She was of English birth, as you have heard. Of her two 
 children, the younger was the wife of Signer de Castella ; the 
 other, Agnes de Beaufoy, a maiden lady, had never left her. 
 The property was situated near to Odesque, a small town some 
 leagues from Belport on the Paris line of railroad. 
 
 The Castellas departed for the chateau on their promised 
 summer's visit. Mary Carr accompanied them at the pressing 
 invitation of Adeline. But Madame de Nino would only grant 
 her leave for a week. 
 
 Adeline de Castella had represented the chateau in glowing 
 colours ; which caused Mary Carr to be surprised, not to say 
 disappointed, when she saw it. A long, straight, staring, 
 whitish-grey building, all windows and chimneys, with a primly- 
 laid-out garden stretched before it, flat and formal. Precise 
 flower-beds, square, oval, round ; round, square, oval ; and long 
 paths, straight and narrow; just as it is the pride of French 
 chateau-gardens to be. The principal entrance to the house 
 was gained by a high, broad flight of steps, on either side of 
 which was a gigantic lion, grinning its fierce teeth at all visitors. 
 And these lions, which were not alive, but carved out of stone, 
 and the steps, were the only relief given to the bare, naked 
 aspect of the edifice. Before the house were two fountains, 
 the carriage approach running between them. Each was 
 surrounded by eight smaller lions, with another giant of the 
 same species spouting up water from its mouth. 
 
 Very ugly and devoid of taste it all looked to Mary Carr, 
 But on the western side of the chateau improvements were 
 visible. A stone terrace, or colonnade, wide, and supported 
 by pillars, with a flight of steps at each end and in the middle, 
 rose before its windows, and lovely pleasure-grounds extended 
 out to the far distance. A verdant, undulating lawn ; fragrant 
 shrubs ; retired walks, where the trees met overhead ; sheltered 
 banks, grateful to recline upon in the noonday sun ; a winding 
 shrubbery ; a transparent lake : all of their kind charming. 
 For all this, Beaufoy was indebted to the taste of its English 
 mistress. 
 
 In the neighbourhood, within easy drives, were located other 
 chateaux, forming a pleasant little society. The nearest house 
 was only half-a-mile distant, and the reader is requested to take 
 especial notice of it, since he will sometimes go there. It was 
 
 St. Martin's Evi. 14
 
 2IO ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 not a chateau, not half large enough for one, and Beaufoy, with 
 its English ideas, had christened it "The Lodge." 
 
 It was a compact little abode, belonging to the Count 
 d'Estival, an intimate friend of the Beaufoy family. This W. 
 d'Estival was gifted by nature with an extraordinary love for 
 painting and the fine arts. He had built a room to the lodge 
 expressly for the reception of pictures, had travelled much, and 
 was continually adding to his collection. Whilst other people 
 spent their money in society and display, he spent his (and he 
 had plenty of it) in paintings. Mary Carr was a connection of 
 his : her eldest brother, an English clergyman, now dead, had 
 married his niece, Emma d'Estival. You have heard of these 
 Carrs before, in a previous work : of their birth and residence 
 in Holland ; of the singular romance attending the early history 
 of their father and mother ; of the remarkable action at law in 
 Westerbury, by which their rights were established. You will 
 not hear more of them in this history, for I don't suppose you 
 like rechauffes more than I do. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 TAKING A PORTRAIT. 
 
 Madame de Beaufoy, nee Maria Goldingham, was a genial 
 old lady, stout and somewhat helpless. Her daughter Agnes, 
 with her grey hair and her fifty years, looked nearly double the 
 age of Madame de Castella — she was some ten years older. 
 They were not in the least alike, these sisters : the elder was 
 plain, large-featured, eyes and complexion alike pale ; Madame 
 de Castella was a slight, small, delicate-featured woman, with 
 rich brown eyes, and a bright rose-colour on her cheeks. To 
 Mary Carr's surprise — for Adeline had never mentioned it— she 
 saw that Miss de Beaufoy was lame. It was the result of an 
 accident in infancy. 
 
 On the morning following their arrival at Beaufoy, Adeline 
 asked her grandmother if she knew whether M. d'Estival was at 
 the Lodge, and was answered in the negative. He had come 
 down from Paris with visitors, it was said ; but had gone away 
 again almost immediately, the old lady thought to Holland. 
 
 "So much the better," remarked Adeline, "we can go as
 
 TAKING A PORTRAIT. 2ri 
 
 often as we like to his picture-gallery. You are fond of paint- 
 ings, Mary ; you will have a great treat, and you have a sort of 
 right there. Suppose we go now ? " 
 
 " Now ? " said Madame de Castella. " It is so hot ! " 
 
 " It will be hotter later in the day," said Adeline. " Do 
 come with us, mamma." 
 
 Somewhat unwillingly, Madame de Castella called for her 
 scarf and bonnet to accompany them, casting many dubious 
 glances at the cloudless sky and blazing sun. They took their 
 way through the shrubbery ; it was the longest road, but the 
 most shady. And whilst they are walking, let us take a look at 
 this said painting-room. 
 
 It bore an indescribable appearance, partaking partly of the 
 character and confusion of an artist's studio, partly of a gorgeous 
 picture-gallery. The apartment was very long in proportion 
 to its width, and was lighted by high windows, furnished with 
 those green blinds, or shades, which enable artists to procure 
 the particular light they may require. The room opened by 
 means of glass doors upon a lovely pleasure-ground, but there 
 were shutters and tapestry to draw before these doors at will, 
 so that no light need enter by them, Opposite, at the other 
 end of the room, a smaller door connected it with the house. 
 
 That same morning, about seven o'clock, there stood in this 
 apartment a young man arranging French chalks, crayons, 
 painting-brushes, and colours, which lay about in disorder, just 
 as they had been la^t used. A tall, pointed easel stood a few 
 feet from the wall, near it a stand with its colour-box and 
 palettes. There were classical vases scattered about ; plaster- 
 casts from the best models ; statues and busts of porphyry, and 
 carving from the marbles of Lydia and Pentelicus. The 
 sculptured head of a w-arrior ; a group of gladiators ; a Niobe, 
 in its weeping sorrow, and the Apollo Belvedere , bas-reliefs, 
 copied from the statue of the Discobolon, and other studies 
 from the antique. There was beauty in all its aspects, but no 
 deformity, no detached limbs or misshapen forms : as if the 
 collector cared not to excite unpleasing thoughts. On the 
 walls hung copies from, and chefs-d'a'uvre of, the masters of 
 many lands : Michael Angelo, Salvator Rosa, Rembrandt ; 
 groups by Raphael , beautiful angels of Guido ; Carlo Dolce, 
 Titian, all were represented there, with Leonardo da Vinci, 
 the highly-gifted and unhappy. Of the Spanish school there 
 were few specimens, Velasquez, Murillo, and one after Zur-
 
 212 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 barban ; and less of the French, Nicholas Poussin, Le Brun, 
 and Watteau ; but there were several of the Flemish and Dutch 
 masters, copies and originals, Van Dyck, Ruysdael, William 
 Van de Welde, and the brothers Abraham and Isaac Ostade. 
 
 The gentleman finished his preparations, arranged his 
 palettes, rolled the stand nearer, and sat down before his easel. 
 But, ere he began his task, he glanced up at the window 
 nearest him, and, rising, stood upon a chair, and pulled the 
 green shade lower down to regulate the light. Then he began 
 to work, now whistling a scrap of a popular melody, now 
 humming a few bars, and then bursting out, in a voice of the 
 deepest melody, with a full verse. He was copying a portrait 
 by Velasquez, and had made considerable progress towards 
 its completion. It was a lovely female head, supposed to be 
 a representation of Mary Magdalen. But not even the head 
 on which he was working ; not all the portraits and sculptured 
 busts around; not Girodet's "Endymion" by his side, betrayed 
 more winning beauty than did the artist's own face and form. 
 
 The rare intellect of his open brow, the sweet smile on his 
 delicate lips, the earnest glance from his deep-blue eyes, these 
 could not be imitated by painter's brush or Parian marble.J 
 Yet, though his head was cast in the most shapely mould, not 
 to be hidden by the waves of the dark, luxuriant hair, and the 
 pale features, regular to a fault, were of almost womanish 
 beauty, it was not all this, but the expression which so won 
 upon a beholder. Lord John Seymour was right when he 
 said the countenance was more prepossessing than handsome — 
 for you have been prepared no doubt to hear that the painter 
 was Frederick St. John — because in the singular fascination of 
 the expression was forgotten the beauty of the features. 
 
 Mr. St. John worked assiduously for some hours, until it was 
 hard upon mid-day. He then rose, stretched himself, walked 
 across the room, drew aside the tapestry and shutters, and 
 opened the glass doors. 
 
 This part of the room seemed to be consecrated to indolent 
 enjoyment ; all vestiges of work were tov/ards the other end. 
 An ottoman or two, some easy-chairs, and a sofa were here, on 
 which the tired artist might repose, and admire the scene 
 without — or the many scenes within. How beautiful was the 
 repose of that outside prospect ! — It was but a small plot of 
 ground, yet that, of itself, seemed fit for Eden. A green level 
 lawn, from which arose the spray of a fountain, with its jets of
 
 TAKING A PORTRAIT. 213 
 
 crystal and its mossy banks ; clustering flowers of the sweetest 
 scent on the lawn's edge ; high, artificial hills of rock beyond, 
 over which dripped a cascade^ its murmurs soothing the ear ; 
 all very lovely. The whole, not an acre in extent, was sur- 
 rounded by towering trees, through whose dancing leaves the 
 sun could penetrate but in fitful gleams ; fragrant linden-trees, 
 which served to shut the spot out from, the world. 
 
 Mr. St. John threw himself upon an ottoman and looked out. 
 He had a book in his hand, but did not open it. He was too 
 hungry to read, for he had only taken a cup of coffee and a 
 crust of bread that morning at half-past six, and he fell into an 
 idle reverie. 
 
 " Shall I be able to keep my resolution and bear on with this 
 monotony?" he said, half aloud, as he watched unconsciously 
 the flickering sunlight upon the lawn. " A few months of this 
 inexpensive life, and I shall see my way out of embarrassment 
 more clearly than I do now, I will not be indebted to Isaac 
 for my deliverance — no, I won't ; and if there were only some 
 break in the life here — some relief — if d'Estival himself were 
 only back " 
 
 The door at the opposite end of the room opened, and a 
 portly, pleasant-looking woman, who might be the mistress of 
 the house in her plain morning costume, or its respectable 
 housekeeper, looked in, and told Mr. St. John his breakfast 
 was served. 
 
 " Thank you, Madame Baret," he said, not in the least sorry 
 to hear it. And as he followed her from the room, in all the 
 alacrity of hunger, he did not observe that his pocket-hand- 
 kerchief fell to the ground. 
 
 It was about this time that the party from Beaufoy reached 
 the Lodge, Madame de Castella grumbling dreadfully. She 
 had borne the heat pretty patiently through the shaded shrub- 
 bery, but in the open ground, and in that brazen cornfield, 
 which had not so much as a hedge, or a green blade of grass 
 on which to rest the dazzled eye, it had been intensely felt. 
 A shocking state her complexion would be in ! She could 
 feel incipient blisters on it already. 
 
 " Dear mamma, it is not so bad as that," laughed Adeline, 
 " it is only a little red. Let us go in by the gate at once to 
 the painting-room ! Madame Baret will keep us talking for an 
 hour, especially when she gets to know who Mary is." 
 
 "I am too hot to look at paintings," querulously returned
 
 214 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Madame de Castella. "You may go to the painting-room, 
 but I shall seek Madame Baret, and get a draught of milk. I 
 never was so hot in my life." 
 
 She went on to the house as she spoke, Adeline and Mary 
 passed through the little gate of the secluded garden, and sat 
 down in the painting-room. 
 
 Oh, how delightful it .was there ! how delightful ! They had 
 come in from the broad glare, the sultry mid-day heat, to that 
 shady place ; the eye, fatigued with the dazzling light, had 
 found a rest ; the fields looked burnt up and brown, but here 
 the grass was fresh and green; the cool, sparkling waters of 
 the fountain were playing, and those lovely flower-beds emitted 
 the sweetest perfume. It was grateful as is the calm, silvery 
 moonlight after a day of blazing heat. Never had Mary Carr 
 seen a place that so forcibly spoke to her mind of rest and peace. 
 
 Adeline was the first to rise from her seat : something in 
 another part of the room attracted her attention. 
 
 " Mary ! look at this ! a painting on the easel ! and in pro- 
 gress ! Grandmamma said M. d'Estival was away ! " 
 
 Miss Carr turned her head, and in that glance, the first she 
 had really bestowed on the apartment, thought its contents the 
 most heterogeneous mass she had ever beheld. Adeline con- 
 tinued to look at the easel. 
 
 " There are touches here of a master's hand. It must be 
 M. d'Estival. He paints beautifully. Many of these copies 
 are by him. Or can it be an artist he has here ? " 
 
 "Adeline, you have dropped your handkerchief," said Miss 
 Carr, rising, and picking up one from the floor. She turned 
 to its four corners. In the first three there was no name ; in 
 the last, not "A. L. de C," as she expected, but, worked in 
 hair, and surmounted by a crest, " Frederick St. John." 
 
 A presentiment of the truth flashed across her brain. A 
 confused remembrance of a young man of noble presence, 
 a French marigold, and Rose Darling's superstitious fears that 
 he would exercise some blighting influence over her future life. 
 She called to Adeline with breathless interest, and the latter 
 came to her immediately, aroused by the tone. 
 
 "See this, Adeline !" pointing to the name. " It is neither 
 yours nor mine." 
 
 Adeline read it quite indifferently. 
 
 '■'■ Dojit you remember — on your ball-night — he with the 
 French marisfold?"
 
 TAKING A PORTRAIT. 215 
 
 '' Frederick St. John," said Adeline, carelessl}', taking the 
 handkerchief in her hand. " Yes, it is the same name. Probably 
 the same person." 
 
 How calmly she spoke ; how indifferently ! An utter stranger, 
 a name she had never heard, could not have excited in her less 
 interest. There was no shadow on her spirit of what was to 
 come. 
 
 At that moment the inner door opened, and Mr. St. John 
 entered. Mary Carr started with surprise, for she had not 
 observed that any door was there. Air. St. John also stood, 
 momentarily transfixed, wondering, no doubt, who they were, 
 and how they got there, like the flies in amber. He at once 
 apologized for having so unceremoniously entered the room, 
 not being aware that it was occupied. 
 
 " The apology is due from us, Mr. St. John," interrupted 
 Adeline. " You do not recollect me ? " she continued, seeing 
 his surprised look at the mention of his name. 
 
 Was it likely ? He had seen her but once, months before, in 
 her brilliant ball-dress ; now she was in morning attire, her face 
 shaded by a bonnet. 
 
 " It seems my fate to be in unlawful possession of your 
 property," continued Adeline, holding out the handkerchief. 
 "The first time we met, I deprived you of a flower, and 
 now " 
 
 " My dear Mademoiselle de Castella ! " he interrupted, his 
 features lighting up with pleasure as he took both her hands. 
 '■' Pray pardon me. Do not think I had forgotten you. But 
 indeed you were almost the last person I could have expected 
 to meet here." True. That there was such a place as Beaufoy 
 in the neighbourhood he knew, but not that the Castellas were 
 in any way connected with it. 
 
 " Are you staying here? " asked Adeline. 
 
 "Yes." And he explained how it happened that he was so. 
 He had met the Count d'Estival (whom he had known pre- 
 viously) in Paris this spring, and had accepted an invitation to 
 accompany him home. Soon after their arrival the count had 
 received a summons to Holland on family business, and he had 
 made St. John promise to await his return. 
 
 " This young lady is a connection of M. d'Estival's," said 
 Adeline. " You have heard of the Carrs of Holland — of 
 Rotterdam?" 
 
 Mr. St. John smiled. " The Carrs of Holland are renowned
 
 Ci6 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 people in my county. Westerbury boasts of its famous trial 
 still." 
 
 " And you know, then, that the Reverend Robert Carr married 
 Emma d'Estival," continued Adeline. " This is Mary Carr, his 
 only sister." 
 
 A saddened light came into Frederick St John's eyes as he 
 took her hands in greeting. The reminiscences brought all too 
 palpably to his mind one who had been very dear to him — the 
 dead college boy. 
 
 Madame de Castella entered the room, and they all seemed 
 at home with each other at once. Mr St. John went round the 
 walls with them, pointing out the beauties and merits of the 
 paintings, though the Castellas had seen them before. 
 
 " I perceive you are an artist,'' observed Madame de Castella, 
 looking at the paintmg on the easel. 
 
 "I have only the talents of an amateur, greatly as I love the 
 art, much as I have practised it. If I ever wish myself other 
 than what I am, it is that I could be one of our great painters. 
 How little is known in England of Velasquez' portraits ! " he 
 exclaimed, looking lovingly on the original he was copying. 
 
 " Or in France either," returned Madame de Castella. " Be- 
 lieve me, Mr. St. John, no one can appreciate the Spanish school 
 of painting until they obtain a knowledge of the collections in 
 Spain." 
 
 " You are quite right," he answered. 
 
 " Have you been in Spain ? " 
 
 " I believe I have been everywhere, so far as Europe goes, 
 where there is a gallery of paintings to be seen." 
 
 " And do you like the Spanish school ? " 
 
 " Pretty well." 
 
 " Only that ? I am sorry to hear you say so." 
 
 "Spanish painting has a character peculiar to itself," resumed 
 Mr. St. John. " At least, I have always thought so. The artists 
 were not free : they were compelled to bend to those laws that 
 restricted their pencils to delineations of religious subjects. 
 Had they been at liberty to exercise their genius unfettered, 
 they would have left more valuable mementos behind them. 
 Imagination is the very life and soul of painting; curb that, and 
 you can expect but little." 
 
 " I suppose you are right," said Madame de Castella. 
 
 Madame Baret came in, and joined the party. She was re- 
 lated to the Count d'Estival. Some years before, her husband,
 
 TAKING A PORTRAIT. 217 
 
 who was then a small proprietor, risked his money in a sj^ecu- 
 lation, and was ruined. M. d'Estival stepped in, and offered 
 them an asylum with him. Tliey accepted it, upon condition 
 that they should be permitted to be useful. Madame became 
 the active mistress and manager of the house, her husband the 
 superintendent of the land and farm. But though they did 
 make themselves useful, both indoors and out, somewhat after 
 the manner of upper servants, they were gentlepeople still, and 
 received due consideration and respect. 
 
 " Who is that painting by ? " inquired Madame de Castella, 
 stopping before a group of portraits. 
 
 " It is a copy of one of Van Dyck's," said Mr. St. John. 
 "There hangs the original. But it is admirably executed." 
 
 " It is, indeed," replied Madame de Castella. " To my un- 
 practised eye, it looks equal to the original." 
 
 "Almost," assented Mr. St. John. " Except in the transpa- 
 rency of the skin, and there Van Dyck cannot be rivalled." 
 
 " Whose is that gorgeous landscape?" 
 
 "An original of Claude Lorraine's." 
 
 " To be sure. I might have told it by the colouring. And 
 that next, Mr. St. John ? " 
 
 " One of Correggio's." 
 
 " I don't much admire it." 
 
 "It is cold, but fauUless," was Mr. St. John's reply, "as Cor- 
 reggio's productions generally are." 
 
 " Do you paint portraits from life, Mr. St. John ? " 
 
 "I have done so; and would again, if I found a subject to 
 my taste." 
 
 "What better study, for a fine old head, than your good 
 hostess, here?" rejoined Madame de Castella, lowering her 
 voice. 
 
 St. John laughed ; a pleasant laugh. To Mary Carr's ear it 
 seemed to imply that he did not care to paint old women. 
 "Will you permit me to try my hand at yours?" he said to 
 Madame de Castella. 
 
 " No, indeed, thank you," she answered. " Mine has already 
 been taken three times, and I don't like the fatigue of sitting." 
 
 The silvery chimes of the antique clock on its pedestal told 
 three before they took their departure. Not half the time 
 appeared to have elapsed : could it be the charm of St. John's 
 conversation that caused it to fly so rapidly, or the merits of the 
 pictures ? He escorted them across the fields to the gate of
 
 2i8 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 their own shrubbery : and Madame de Castella invited him to 
 visit them in the evening. 
 
 At dinner, the conversation fell upon Mr. St. John. Madame 
 de Castella expressed herself delighted that so agreeable a man 
 should be located near them, and laughed at her sister, Made- 
 moiselle Agnes, for not having found him out before. He was 
 a thorough gentleman, a high-bred man of the world, she said, 
 and his society would help them to pass away the time pleasantly 
 during M. de Castella's absence in Paris. Before they had done 
 talking of him, St. John entered. 
 
 He was in slight mourning, his evening attire very plain and 
 quiet, but he bore about him always a nameless elegance. 
 Mary Carr looked at him with admiration — as did probably the 
 rest ; but for them she could not answer. There was a peculiar 
 charm in his manner she had never seen in any other man's. 
 Describe in what it lay, she could not ; but it attracted to him 
 all with whom he came in contact. His conversation was 
 eloquent and animated, but his bearing calm and still. Before 
 he left, he promised M. de Castella to dine with them the next 
 evening. 
 
 In the morning, M. de Castella, Adeline, and Mary Carr, 
 walked over to the lodge, where they stayed some hours. M. 
 de Castella, unlike his wife, could never tire of looking at the 
 paintings= The time seemed to fly. It is scarcely to be de- 
 scribed how very much they had become at home with Mr. St. 
 John — they were as familiar and dear friends. 
 
 Something was said in jest about his taking Adeline's like- 
 ness ; but these jests grow into earnest now and then. Mary 
 Carr could hardly tell how it came to be decided, but decided 
 it was when he came up to dinner in the evening. Signor and 
 Madame de Castella were delighted at the idea of possessing a 
 portrait of her, and the old lady was so eager, she wanted it to 
 be begun off-hand. Adeline, too, was nothing loth : it was 
 gratifying to her innocent and pardonable vanity. 
 
 On the Friday morning — unlucky day ! — Adeline sat to Mr. 
 St. John for the first time. Her father and Miss Carr were 
 with her. Afterwards he again went to dine at the chateau : 
 the evening seemed dull now that did not bring them Mr. St. 
 John. Truly the acquaintance was short enough to say this. 
 On the following m.orning early, M. de Castella departed for 
 Paris, and after breakfast Adeline and Mary Carr proceeded 
 to the lodge with Madame de Castella. The sitting was long,
 
 TAKING A PORTRAIT. 219 
 
 and Madame de Castella could not conceal her weariness. 
 To many, the opporfanity of examining the paintings would 
 have been pleasure sufficient, but not to her. In point of fact, 
 she had no taste for the fine arts, and after Tuesday's cursory 
 renewed view of them, the task proved irksome. She com- 
 plained much, too, of tlie walk in the morning heat. The truth 
 was — and it is as well to confess it — that during these periodical 
 visits to the Chateau de Beaufoy, Madame de Castella lived 
 in a chronic state of ennui. Young and good-looking still, 
 fond of the world, the dulness of Beaufoy was a very penance 
 to her. She went through it willingly as a duty : she loved 
 her mother ; but she could not help the weariness affecting her 
 spirits. 
 
 The sitting this first inorning was long and weary : but for 
 talking with Mr. St. John, she never could have sat through it. 
 Their conversation turned upon Rome — a frequent theme. 
 Mary Carr thought that were she to remain long with them 
 she should become as well acquainted with the Eternal City 
 as though she had visited it. St. John seemed wonderfully 
 attached to it ; as were the Castellas. He had a portfolio of 
 drawings of it, from his own pencil : some of them highly- 
 finished coloured specimens ; others bare sketches, to be filled 
 up from memory ; the lines of genius apparent in all. The 
 portefeuille was often referred to : even Madame de Castella 
 had been content to look over it for a full hour. It was a 
 motley collection. A sketch of the lovely Alban hills ; the 
 ruins of an aqueduct ; a temple of Pcestum ; the beauties of 
 Tivoli ; the ruins of the C\nesars' palaces ; St. Peter's in its 
 magnificence ; a view from the Appian Way ; a drawing of 
 the Porta San Giovanni ; an imaginative sketch of a gorgeous 
 palace of Rome in its zenith ; a drawing of one of its modern 
 villas ; a temple of Jupiter ; Sallust's garden ; and the tomb, 
 still so perfect, of Cecilia Metella. There were fanciful moon- 
 light views of the now almost uninhabited hills, Paltaino, Celio, 
 and Aventino. There was one masterly, gloomy painting of 
 a grove of pines and cypress trees, overlooking a heap of ruins. 
 Lying side by side with it, was one of a life-like garden, with 
 its marble fountains, its colonnades, its glimpses of tinted 
 flowers, its blooming orange and lemon trees, its cascades and 
 pillars, its wreathing vines, its polished statues, and its baths 
 of Alexandrian marble ; and, over all, the bright blue of an 
 Italian sky, and the glowing beams of an Italian sun.
 
 220 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " May 1 ask a favour of you ? " said Madame de Castella, 
 addressing Madame Baret when they were going away. 
 
 "As many as you like," returned the smihng dame, ever 
 good-humoured. 
 
 " I cannot possibly endure these hot walks every day until 
 the sittings are over. When I do not come myself, will you 
 kindly bear my daughter company while she is here, and take 
 charge of her ? Louise can attend her in walking hither." 
 
 " With the greatest pleasure," returned Madame Baret. " I 
 will take every care of her. But there is nothing here that can 
 harm Mademoiselle." 
 
 "/ will take care of her," interrupted St. John, in low, 
 earnest tones to Madame de Castella. " No harm shall come 
 near her. I will guard her from all : more anxiously than if 
 she were my own sister." 
 
 Adeline partly caught the words, and blushed at their 
 earnestness. It was impossible to doubt the young man's 
 honourable feeling, or his wish to save her from all harm, real 
 or imaginary. What his exact meaning was, Mary Carr did 
 not know, but some of the others, it would appear, were think- 
 ing of outward, visible danger. Madame Baret had been 
 cautioning Adeline never to come through the field where the 
 savage bull was let loose, though it did cut off a portion of 
 the road ; and Madame de Castella besought her not to sit 
 with the two doors open, and always to keep her bonnet on 
 for a few minutes after she came in, that she might become cool 
 before removing it. Adeline laughed, and promised obedience 
 to all. 
 
 Louise, the lady's-maid, commenced her attendance on the 
 Monday. She did not appear to relish the walk more than 
 did her mistress, and displayed an enormous crimson parapluie, 
 which she held between her face and the sun. At the door of 
 the painting-room, she handed the young ladies over to the 
 charge of Mr. St. John, and then left them. Madame de 
 Castella never understood but that Louise remained with her 
 young mistress in the painting-room : does not understand the 
 contrary to this day. She certainly intended her to do so, 
 notwithstanding her request to Madame Baret. But Louise 
 was a most inveterate gossip, and to sit silent and restrained 
 before her superiors in the painting-room, gaping at its beauties, 
 which she could not comprehend, when she might be exercis- 
 ing her tongue with Madame Baret's housemaid and bonne,
 
 TAKING A PORTRAIT. 221 
 
 Juliette, in her sewing-chamber, or with Madame Baret's stout 
 maid-of-all-work in the kitchen, was philosophy beyond Made- 
 moiselle Louise. Neither did Madame Baret always sit with 
 Adeline. Her various occupations, as active mistress of the 
 house, and especially of those two idle servants, frequently 
 called her away. Nor did she give a thought to there being 
 any necessity for her doing so. What harm, as she had ob- 
 served, could come near Adeline ? 
 
 "How long have you been here, Mr. St. John?" inquired 
 Mary Carr, as, the sitting over — sooner than it need have been 
 —they strolled into the garden. 
 
 "Nearly a month. Perhaps I may stay here until winter." 
 
 " In this dull place ! Why ? " 
 
 He laughed as he avowed the truth. That he had been 
 extravagant — imprudent — and had outrun his income. In the 
 world he should only get deeper into the mire, but there he 
 was spending next to nothing. A little patience : it would all 
 come right in time. 
 
 "What shrub do you call this, Adeline ? " inquired Mary 
 Carr, by way of changing the conversation, and vexed at her 
 inquisitiveness. 
 
 " Candleberry myrtle, in English," replied Adeline. " We 
 were staying at Rambouillet some years ago, and brought some 
 suckers from the forest. It grows there in great abundance. 
 Mamma gave some to M. d'Estival, and he planted them 
 here." 
 
 Suddenly, Mr. St. John made a motion of silence, and, 
 bending stealthily towards Adeline, half closed his hand, and 
 swept it quickly over the side of her throat. A wasp had 
 settled on her neck. 
 
 " There it goes," he said, dashing it into the water of the 
 fountain, "You know," he continued, half playfully, half 
 tenderly, gazing into her face, and interrupting her efibrts at 
 thanks, " that I have undertaken to shield you from harm. It 
 shall be my earnest care to do so, now and ever." 
 
 A shade crossed Adeline's countenance. Did she already 
 regret her marriage contract ? or was she in danger of for- 
 getting it altogether? There was nothing to remind her of 
 it : even the engagement-ring was no longer on her finger. 
 It was too large for her, and quite a source of trouble to keep 
 on, so she had put it into her jewel-box : where it lay, uncared 
 for.
 
 222 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Mr. St. John ! the wasp has stung your hand ! " 
 
 " Yes, he revenged himself by leaving his sting there. It is 
 nothing. And, indeed, will serve as an excuse to Madame de 
 Castella for my idleness to-day." 
 
 " You know I leave to-morrow," said Mary, turning to him. 
 '• Will you send me up a bouquet of these beautiful flowers to 
 take to Rose Darling ? " 
 
 " You shall be obeyed, fair lady. How large will you have 
 it ? The size of Louise's parapluie ? " 
 
 With the next morning came the bouquet, Mr. St. John 
 himself being the bearen His visit had a twofold purport, he 
 observed : to bid adieu to Miss Carr, and to walk with Adeline 
 down to the Lodge. He had been thinking it might be better, 
 he said to Madame de Castella, that he should escort Adeline 
 to and fro, until the return of M. de Castella. Mary Carr 
 glanced at his countenance as he spoke : she saw that his 
 words were honest ; that there was no hidden meaning ; that 
 the protection of Adeline was then the sole motive which 
 actuated him. 
 
 Ten o'clock struck as they were talking, and, with the last 
 stroke, came round the carriage to convey Miss Carr to 
 Odesque, where she was to take the train. 
 
 " May I whisper a caution to you ? " said Mary, pressing her 
 lips to Adeline's, in parting. 
 
 "A caution ! Fifty, if you like." 
 
 " Do not fall in love with Frederick £l. John." 
 
 " Mary ! " 
 
 " From the position in which you stand — engaged to another 
 — it might lead to endless misery." 
 
 "There is no danger of it," returned Adeline, breathlessly. 
 " If there were, do you suppose papa and mamma would suffer 
 me to be with him ? How could any such idea enter your 
 head, Mary Carr ? You are taking a leaf from Rose's book." 
 
 Papa and mamma I Truth was in her accent, but how little 
 she understood. 
 
 " I am willing to believe that there is no danger," was Miss 
 Carr's reply. " / hope you will be able so to speak -ivhen we next 
 meet. Do not feel angry with me, Adeline. I have but your 
 interest at heart." 
 
 Mr. St. John conducted Miss Carr to the carriage, and, in 
 shaking hands, he jestingly begged her to give his love to Rose: 
 they had talked much of her. As he stood there on the stone
 
 TAKING A PORTRAIT. ^^^ 
 
 J 
 
 steps, bareheaded, until Mary should drive away, her last look 
 lingered on him ; and again that uneasy doubt shot through 
 her mind — how impossible that Adeline should live in con- 
 tinual companionship with such a man, and not learn to love 
 him ! 
 
 Miss Carr was received by IMadame de Nino with a scolding 
 and a threat of punishment. She had exceeded her time of 
 absence by a day. But Mary laid the blame upon Madame de 
 Castella, and handed in a note of apology from that lady. 
 Madame was only half soothed ; but she graciously remitted 
 the punishment. 
 
 Mary drew Rose Darling aside. " Won't you admire these 
 lovely tlowers ? They were sent for you." 
 
 Rose was sulky. She had been in a furious state of envy 
 during Mary's visit, because she was not invited herself. 
 
 "Of all the human race, Rose, playing out their course upon 
 this variable world of ours, who do you suppose is located just 
 now within a stone's throw of the Chateau de Beaufoy ? " 
 
 " I dare say it's nobody I know," said Rose, cross still, 
 
 "You know and admire him. A j'oung and handsome man. 
 He gathered these flowers for you — see how rare they are ! — 
 and he sent them with his love." 
 
 She looked up sharply ; and her inind reverted to one who, 
 perhaps, was seldom absent from it. But another moment 
 sufficed to show how idle was the thought ; and the current of 
 ideas led her to another. 
 
 "Not Lord John Seymour? " 
 
 " No ; what should bring him there ? Frederick St. John." 
 
 "He ! You are joking, Mary Carr." 
 
 " I am not. He is staying quite close to them. We saw 
 a great deal of him. And — Rose ! — he is taking Adeline's 
 portrait ! " 
 
 " Allez toujours," exclaimed Rose, using a familiar French 
 expression. " I told you once before, Mary Carr, that that 
 man, my pseudo-cousin, would exercise some extraordinary 
 influence over Adeline de Castella's future life ; and I now tell 
 it you again."
 
 224 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 CPIAPTER XX. 
 
 love's first dream. 
 
 Hours, days, weeks, rolled on, after the departure of Miss 
 Carr from the Chateau de Beaufoy, and no outward change 
 had taken place in its occupants. But in the inward heart of 
 one, how much ! 
 
 The portrait progressed towards its completion, though not 
 rapidly. It was a good likeness of Adeline, and admirably 
 executed, St, John had exactly caught that sad expression 
 which sometimes sat on her features, forming their chief 
 interest : earth's sorrow mingling with the heavenly beauty of 
 an angel. Had the portrait been preserved, people might have 
 said afterwards they could read her history there. 
 
 St, John was also teaching Adeline drawing : or, rather, 
 trying to improve her in it. One day Madame de Castella 
 desired her to produce her school-drawings— and she had done 
 none since she left. Accordingly, some chalk-heads and a few 
 landscapes came forth. There was not much taste displayed 
 in the heads, St. John observed ; more in the landscapes, in 
 two of them especially — a glimpse of the Nile and some lotus 
 lilies, its fountains surrounded by their date-trees ; and a 
 charming scene in her own fair land. That there was great 
 room for improvement, every one could but acknowledge, and 
 Mr. St. John offered to give her some lessons. All of them— 
 Madame de Castella, Aunt Agnes, and the old grandmother 
 — were pleased at his offer. How could they be so blind ? 
 How could they be so thoughtless ? St. John had acquired 
 an extraordinary influence over them all, Madame de Castella 
 was much attached to him ; she seemed to feel a sort of pride 
 in him, as a fond mother will feel in the perfections of an only 
 son. He frequently dined with them ; all his evenings were 
 spent there as a matter of course. He had become necessary 
 to their every-day life. When he was away, nothing went right; 
 when he was present, it was sunshine to all. And yet they 
 forgot that there was another who might be equally aAvake to 
 the charms his presence brought ; the only one to whom it 
 could bring real danger. Perhaps the thought of danger to 
 Adeline's heart never entered the head of Madame de Castella ;
 
 LOVE'S FIRST DREAM. 225 
 
 perhaps, if it ever did momentarily cross her, she deemed that 
 Adehne, from her engagement, was safe. 
 
 Many an hour, when Aladame de Castella innocently deemed 
 that Adehne was sitting mumchance in the painting-room, 
 Louise embroidering her own caps, at which she was a famous 
 hand, by her side, and Mr. St. John working hard at the 
 portrait, without a thought beside it, would two out of those 
 three be idling their morning underneath the lime-trees, St. 
 John readmg to her, chiefly books of poetry, its theme often 
 love. Then he would lay down the book, and talk to her, in 
 that tender, persuasive voice so soothing to the ear but 
 dangerous to the heart. Thus they would sit on for hours, 
 her hand sometimes clasped in his, he the reader, she the 
 listener, devouring together this sweet and subtle poetry, which 
 has in it so much of fascination. Oh, the hazardous life for 
 the heart's peace ! — when both were in the heyday of youth, 
 singularly attractive, and one, at least, had never loved. And 
 yet it was neither stopped nor interfered with, nor was its danger 
 suspected. 
 
 One day they were standing at the open doors of the paint- 
 ing-room. Mr St. John was speaking of Castle Wafer. He 
 had before described its attractions, natural and imparted, to 
 Adeline, had made sketches for her of some of its points, from 
 memory. He was saying that when Castle Wafer was his own 
 — and it would be some time — he should build a room similar 
 to the one they were now in, for himself and his work, and lay 
 out a plot of ground as the plot before them was laid out : it 
 would serve as a momento of this period of their early acquaint- 
 ance. "And in that room, Adeline," he continued, "we will 
 spend a great portion of our time." 
 
 "We [" exclaimed Adeline. 
 
 The interruption awoke him to reality ; for he had been as 
 one buried in a dream, and was unconscious at the moment 
 that he spoke aloud. Laughing as he made his apology, he 
 bent his head towards her ; but even then his voice took a 
 dangerously sweet and persuasive tone. 
 
 He had spoken inadvertently. But, the truth was, he had 
 latterly been so accustomed, in his inmost self, to associate 
 Adeline with hereafter — his future plans, his future home, his 
 future happiness — that he had unguardedly given utterance to 
 his presumptuous thoughts ; he would not so offend again. 
 
 She glanced timidly at him, earnest tears in her eyes, glowing 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. 15
 
 226 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 blushes on her cheeks. In her heart she would have wished to 
 tell him how far he had been from giving her offence. 
 
 Another time he was walking home with Adeline, Louise 
 and her great crimson parapluie streaming, as usual, a good way 
 behind them, when, in jumping from a stile, Adeline twisted 
 her foot. The pain for the moment was intense : Mr. St. John 
 saw it, by her countenance ; and he stole his arms round her 
 and sheltered her head on his arm. All these signs must mean 
 — something. 
 
 That time had come for Adeline which must come for us all 
 — the blissful period of love's first dream. She did not at first 
 understand the magic of the charm that was stealing over her, 
 making all, within and without, a paradise. She had assured 
 Miss Carr that there was no danger of her loving Mr. St. John, 
 yet even then, though she suspected it not, the golden links of 
 the net were fastening on her heart. And when she awoke to 
 the real nature of these sweet sensations, it was too late to 
 fly the danger — the power and the will to do so were alike 
 over. 
 
 How many varied degrees of the passion called love there 
 are, can never be ascertained, for one human being cannot 
 experience the feelings of another. The love — so called — felt 
 by the generality of mortals, ever_'.--day, practical men and 
 women, is so essentially different from that which takes root 
 in a highly passionate, imaginative temperament, refined and 
 intellectual, that the two have no affinity one with the other. 
 This last passion is known but to few, and apart from them- 
 selves, can be imagined by none. The world could not under- 
 stand this love; it is of a different nature from anything they 
 can know ; they would laugh at, while they disbelieved in it. It 
 has been asserted that this highly-wrought passion, the ecstatic 
 bliss of which, while it lasts, no earthly language could express, 
 never ends happily. I believe that it never does. The dream 
 comes to an end, and the heart's life with it. Perhaps nearly a 
 whole existence has yet to be dragged through, but all enjoy- 
 ment in the world and the world's things is gone, and nothing 
 can ever again awaken a pulse in the veins, a thrill in the worn 
 and beaten heart. The smile may sit upon the lip, the jest 
 may issue from it ; gay beaming glances may dart from the 
 eye, and their hollowness is not suspected, nor the desolation 
 that has long settled within. You who read this, may meet it 
 in a spirit of dispute and ridicule : then it is because you cannot
 
 LOVE'S FIRST DREAM. 227 
 
 understand it. And be thankful that it is so — that to you the 
 power, so fatally to love, has been spared. 
 
 It was a passion of this latter and rare description which had 
 taken root in the bosom of x'Vdeline de Castella. She could not 
 have loved as the world loves, for she was one of those who live 
 but in the inward life. There was a mine of sentiment and 
 poetry within her, and it wanted but a touch like this to awaken 
 it Now, she lived in the present ; before, she had lived in the 
 future ; hereafter, she would live in the past She rose in the 
 morning, and there was no wish beyond the day, the seeing Mr. 
 St John ; she retired to rest at night, only to dream of him, 
 and to awake to the bliss of another day. Nature had never 
 looked to her as it looked now : the grass had been green, but 
 not of this green ; the fragrance of the flowers had been frag- 
 rance, but they had not borne their present sweetness ; the 
 song of the birds, hitherto unmeaning, seemed now a carol of 
 joyous praise to their Creator* there was music in the winds 
 and in the fluttering breeze ; there was rapture m the whole 
 bright earth. Adeline was living in a dream, not of this world 
 but of Paradise ; it could be called nothing else ; she was walk- 
 ing on the wings of the morning, treading on the yielding flowers. 
 It was well for her that it was not destined to last ; it is well for 
 us all : or we should never ask, or wish, for the heaven that is 
 to come. 
 
 And what of Mr. St John? Did he love her? Beyond all 
 doubt he loved her, and would have made her his wife, and 
 cherished her as such : but whether in the idolatry of a first and 
 impassioned attachment, or whether in but the passing prefer- 
 ence which some men will feel ten times for as many women, 
 can hardly be known. It was not given to tlie world to pene- 
 trate Mr. St John's secret feelings ; but events shall be faithfully 
 related as they occurred. 
 
 And meanwhile, as if Fate determined fully to have her fling, 
 news came from M. d'Estival, begging Mr. St John to remain 
 on at the Lodge. That gentleman was detained in Holland 
 by the lingering illness of his brother ; but he was hapi)y, 
 knowing that his cherished pictures were under the care of his 
 friend. 
 
 And Mr. St. John did stay on, nothing loth, making the sun- 
 shine of the chateau and the life of Adeline. 
 
 Existence was somewhat monotonous in itself at Beaufoy, as 
 you may readily conceive, if you have had the honour of so-
 
 228 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 journing in any of these half-isolated French country houses : 
 but there arrived an invitation one day at Beaufoy, for dinner 
 at a neighbouring dwelling. Madame de Beaufoy had given up 
 dinner-parties, but the others went. Adeline would have liked 
 to decline, but she dared not. 
 
 She entered the carriage on the appointed evening, and sat in 
 it listless and absorbed. Mr St. John was not going, and the 
 hours not spent with him were to her now as dead and lost. 
 Madame de Castella noticed her abstraction, and inquired if 
 she were ill. 
 
 " I have only a headache," replied Adeline, who was too 
 English not to have acquired the common excuse. 
 
 " Maria ! " exclaimed Mademoiselle de Beaufoy, suddenly 
 addressing her sister, " I declare, there's Mr. St. John ! Where 
 can he have been walking to in this heat ?'' 
 
 Adeline turned and saw him, a thrill of rapture rushing 
 through her veins. They returned his greeting, and drove on. 
 
 Where can he be walking to ^ S/ic surmised — that it was but 
 to obtain a glimpse of her as their carriage passed. She was no 
 longer pensive : a heightened colour shone in her cheek, a bril- 
 liancy in her eye : her spirits rose to exultation, and she went 
 the rest of the way as one on fairy Avings. 
 
 They sank again ere the evening was half over, the long, tame, 
 spiritless evening. To others it might seem gay; but not to her : 
 her heart was far away, and she only cared that it should end 
 and the morrow be nearer. No singing, after his voice, brought 
 music to her ear ; the dancing was no longer the dancing of 
 other days 
 
 The next day was the birthday ot Mademoiselle de Beaufoy ; 
 a fete always kept with much c^iremony. A dinner was to be 
 given in the evening, and M de Castella was expected to arrive 
 for it from Paris. In the course of the day a note was handed 
 to Adeline, its handwriting bringing a wild flush of pleasure to 
 her cheeks. It was from Mr. St. John, stating that he was 
 called to Odesque to meet a friend, who would be passing 
 through it on his way to Paris, and he did not know whether 
 he could return for dinner. It was only a short note, worded 
 as a brother might write to a sister ; yet she hung enraptured 
 over its few lines, and held it to her heart ; she almost cried 
 aloud in her excess of ecstasy ; and stealthily, her cheeks a rosy 
 red, and her face turned to the darkest corner of the room, she 
 pressed to her lips its concludmg words — "Frederick St. John."
 
 LOVE'S FIRST DREAM. 229 
 
 The first letter from one we love ! — what an epoch it is in life ! 
 It stands alone in memory; the one letter of existence; bear- 
 ing no analogy to the stern real ones of later years. 
 
 The return of Signor de Castella, after an absence, had once 
 been a joyous event to Adeline. Now, she looked forward to 
 it with indifference. It was not that she loved her father less ; 
 but other feelings had grown tame in comparison with this new 
 passion that absorbed her. The day wore on, however, and the 
 Signor did not come. 
 
 The guests arrived, all save one, and 'dinner would be an- 
 nounced immediately. Adeline was waiting and hoping for 
 Mr. St. John : but she waited in vain. How inexpressibly 
 lovely she looked in her evening dress, with the rose-flush of 
 excitement on her cheeks, some of those guests remember to 
 this day. A strange, sick feeling of expectancy had taken 
 possession of her; she scarcely knew what was passing. Ques- 
 tions were addressed to her, which she answered at random, 
 scarcely hearing their purport. Was aiwther evening to pass 
 without seeing him ? 
 
 A sudden opening of the door. The servant threw it wide 
 upon its portals. Adeline cavght one glimpse beyond it, and 
 heard the man's words : 
 
 " Monsieur de Saint John." For those French servants always 
 put in the "de" when speaking oi him. 
 
 She turned, in her agitation, to one who sat next to her, and 
 spoke rapid sentences to cover it. She did not look, but she 
 felt he had advanced to Madame de Beaufoy, now to Madame 
 de Castella, and now he was speaking a few whispered words 
 of congratulation to Agnes. She hoped he would not come to 
 her just then ; her tremor was already too great for concealment. 
 Oh, the rapture, the unspeakable rapture that thrilled through 
 her whole soul at his presence ! That a human being, one like 
 ourselves, should bring such ! 
 
 They were pairing off to the dining-room. St. John was 
 talking with one of the lady guests, and Adeline saw him turn 
 sharply round, as if he would have advanced to her. But a 
 wealthy neighbouring proprietor, rejoicing in the long-sounding 
 title of Monsieur le Comte Le Coq de Monty, took the white 
 tips of Adeline's gloved fingers within his own. 
 
 But he sat next her. Whether by accident, or successful 
 manoeuvring, or original design, he sat next her. More than 
 once, in the course of the elaborate dinner, their hands — their
 
 230 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 hands ! — met, under cover of the table-hnen, and then the whole 
 world around was to her as nothing. ; 
 
 Frederick St. John shone to advantage in society. Handsome 
 without affectation, gay without levity, accomplished without 
 display, he yet possessed, amidst all his solid conversational 
 powers, that apt gallantry which wins its way, that readiness at 
 light phrases which takes captive the ear. He had the great 
 advantage also of speaking French almost as a native : only' by 
 a slight accent once in a way, could a Frenchman detect the 
 foreigner. If he held those guests spell-bound that evening, in 
 what sort of spell do you suppose he must have held Adeline ! 
 It was a man of subtle wisdom who first recorded that phrase 
 of truth — Man's heart is lost through the eye, but woman's 
 through the ear. 
 
 Mr. St. John remained after the guests had departed. When 
 he said farewell, Madame de Castella, in talking, stepped out 
 with him to the colonnade, and descended the steps. Her 
 sister and Adeline followed. It was a lovely night. The 
 transition from the hot rooms, with their many lights, to the 
 cool pure atmosphere without was inexpressibly grateful, and 
 they walked with him to the shrubbery and part of the way 
 down it Madame de Castella suddenly recollected Adeline. 
 Her voice, as she spoke, had a tone of alarm in it. 
 
 " This change to cool air may not be well for you, Adeline. 
 You have nothing on. Let us run back; who will be indoors^ 
 first? Good night, Mr. St. John." 
 
 She turned with Agnes de Beaufoy, and the windings of the 
 shrubbery soon hid them from view. Adeline would have 
 followed, but a beloved arm had encircled her and held her 
 back. Frederick St. John drew her towards him, and snatched 
 the first sweet tremulous kiss of love. Maidenly reserve caused 
 her to draw away from him, otherwise she could have wished 
 
 that kiss to last for ever. " Oh, Frederick ! if mamma " 
 
 was the only agitated rejoinder that came from her lips, and 
 she sped away, her hand lingering, to the last, in his. 
 
 " Why, Adeline ! " exclaimed her aunt, as she came up, 
 " lame as I am, I can beat you at running." 
 
 She went up to her chamber. She stood at the window, 
 looking out on the lovely scene, yet scarcely heeding it ; her 
 hands pressed upon her bosom to keep down its agitation and 
 its excess of happiness. She glanced up at the starry heavens, 
 and wondered if the bliss, promised there, could exceed this
 
 LOVE'S FIRST DREAM. 231 
 
 of earth. She seemed to be realizing some ecstatic fairy-dream 
 of her childhood. How long she stood there, she knew not. 
 Silently she paced her chamber, unable to rest. She recalled 
 his whispered words : she recalled those fleeting moments 
 which had been an era in her life : and when she at last sank 
 into a wearied slumber, it was only to live the reality over 
 again ; to dream that that light touch of Mr. St. John's on her 
 lips was present, not past. 
 
 The next morning Madame de Beaufoy was ill : she had an 
 indigestion ; a very favourite malady with the French. Madame 
 de Castella was anxious, somewhat uneasy ; for no letter had 
 arrived from her husband to account for his non-appearance. 
 She hoped it might come by the evening post. They had 
 many visitors that day, and Adeline thought it would never end. 
 
 After dinner Madame de Beaufoy was well enough to sit up 
 and play at cards in her dressing-room, her two daughters 
 bearing her company. Adeline was downstairs alone, privately 
 expecting Mr. St. John ; now, standing before a mirror, hastily 
 passing a finger over the braids of her luxuriant hair : now 
 glancing, with conscious vanity, at the rich crimson which 
 expectancy called to her cheeks ; now, stealing to the colonnade, 
 and looking and listening. 
 
 Suddenly the room-door opened, and Adeline stepped in 
 from the colonnade, her heart beating wildly. But it was only 
 her mother : who began to rummage amongst the silks and 
 worsteds of an ivory basket. " Only her mother ! " How full 
 of ingratitude is the heart to those who have cherished us from 
 infancy, when this all-potent passion for a stranger takes root 
 in it ! 
 
 " Adeline, your aunt has mislaid her green floss-silk. Will 
 you look in my work-box ? " 
 
 Adeline unlocked the box, found the silk, and handed it to 
 her mother. Again the door opened, and this time her pulse 
 did not quicken in vain. It was Mr. St. John. 
 
 " I am glad to see INIadame de Beaufoy is better," he ob- 
 served as he came in. " She nodded to me from her dressing- 
 room." 
 
 " Oh yes, thank you. Ah, here's news at last ! " exclaimed 
 Madame de Castella, as the old Spanish servant, Silva, entered 
 with a letter. And with a " pardon " to Mr, St. John, she 
 broke the seal. She was very French sometimes. 
 
 " M. de Castella has been detained," she explained, skim-
 
 232 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 ming the contents : " he will not be here for a week. The 
 truth is, Mr. St. John, he always finds Beaufoy painfully triste, 
 and makes excuses for remaining away from it. Adeline, here 
 is a message for you." 
 
 Adeline glanced up half frightened. These instincts are 
 rarely wrong. 
 
 " Your papa desires his love to you, and You are quite 
 
 a family friend now, Mr. St John," broke off Madame de 
 Castella, "so I do not hesitate to speak before you. I dare say 
 the subject is as well known to you as it is to ourselves : you 
 are like a son of the house, a brother to Adeline." 
 
 Mr, St. John bowed. 
 
 "This is what your papa says, Adeline," continued Madame, 
 translating as she read : " ' Make my love to my dear Adeline ; 
 tell her not to be vexed at my additional week's delay, for I 
 shall bring De la Chasse with me when I come.' You are no 
 doubt aware, I say, Mr, St. John, of the position the baron 
 holds in our family in regard to Adeline." 
 
 Another bow from Mr. St. John. 
 
 " And now I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes, 
 while I take this silk to my mother," pursued Madame. 
 " When not well she is a little exacting. I will be down 
 almost immediately. Adeline, do your best to entertam Mr. 
 St. John." 
 
 He closed the door after Madame de Castella, and returned 
 to Adeline. She was leaning against the window-frame, 
 endeavouring to look all unconscious and at ease, but evidently 
 hardly able to support herself. Her face had turned pale ; a 
 sort of startled despair had settled on it. The evil moment, 
 which throughout all this golden time she had never dared to 
 look in the face, was at hand now. 
 
 Mr. St. John wound his arm round her, and became himself 
 her support. He called her by the most endearing names, he 
 pressed the sweetest kisses on her lips : he besought her not 
 to give way to despondency : he assured her there was no 
 cause for it, for that never, never should she be any other's 
 wife than his. 
 
 He had been silent hitherto, so far as open avowal went ; 
 but that was over now. He spoke cheeringly of his plans and 
 prospects ; of winning the consent of Signer de Castella to their 
 union. He pictured their future home in the land of his birth 
 — the land which she had always loved. And Adeline, as she
 
 A FADING CHILD. 233 
 
 listened to his soothing words, never a shade of doubt clouding 
 them, grew reassured and calm. She almost felt, as she stood 
 there by his side and looked into his honest earnest eyes, that 
 no power on earth could avail to separate them, if he willed 
 that it should not. 
 
 When Madame de Castella returned to the room, delightfully 
 unconscious, words which no time could obliterate, at least in 
 one heart, had been spoken. They had betrothed themselves, 
 each to the .'>ther, until death should divide them. A less 
 formal betrothal, it is true ; but oh, how much more genuine 
 than that other in which Adeline de Castella had borne a part. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A FADING CHILD. 
 
 There arrived one morning a missive at the house of Madame 
 de Nino, addressed to that renowned preceptress herself. It 
 was from Madame de Castella, and contained a pressing invita- 
 tion for two of her pupils — you will be at no loss to divine 
 which — to spend some weeks at Beaufoy. 
 
 Madame called the two young ladies up after morning class, 
 told them of the invitation, and handed to each a little sealed 
 note from Adeline, which had been enclosed in the letter. 
 This much certainly must be said for Madame de Nino's 
 establishment : bad as the soup and bouilli were, she never 
 opened the girls' letters. 
 
 " Of course you cannot go," observed Madame. " It would 
 be unreasonable to suppose it." 
 
 " Oh, Madame ! " exclaimed Rose. 
 
 "You would lose all chance of the prizes, my children,'' cried 
 Madame. "And this is your last term at school, remember." 
 
 " But we are too old, Madame, to care for school prizes." 
 
 "Well," said Madame, " of course the decision as to Made- 
 moiselle Rose does not lie with me. Madame Darling being 
 at present in the town, I yield my authority to hers. If she 
 chooses to allow such an absence at the most busy portion ot 
 the year, of course it must be so ; but I can only say that it 
 will be more unreasonable than anything I have met with in 
 all my experience. In that case, Mademoiselle Mary "
 
 234 ST. MARTIN'S EVE, 
 
 " In that case, pray, pray dear Madame, suffer me to accom- 
 pany her," interrupted Mary Carr, in her pleading, soft, quiet 
 tone. " My friends would like me to do so, I know. Eeaufoy 
 is close to M. d'Estival's." 
 
 " I think you are both in league against me," returned 
 Madame. "You English demoiselles never do care properly 
 for the prizes." 
 
 And she went away, saying no more then. Mary Carr 
 wrote a little note to her brother Robert's widow, in England, 
 once Emma d'Estival, asking her to intercede for her with 
 Madame de Nino. 
 
 Mrs. Darling, as you have gathered from Madame's words, 
 was at Belport. She had come to it only within a day or 
 two, with her two daughters, Margaret and Mary Anne. Not 
 to see Miss Rose; that was not the object of her visit; but 
 hoping to meet her eldest daughter Charlotte. 
 
 All these past months, since she first quitted her native 
 shores, had Mrs. Carleton St. John been travelling about the 
 Continent. Travelling about; the word is put advisedly. 
 Now hither, now thither ; to-day in one place, to-morrow in 
 another ; ever restless, ever on the wing. France, Germany, 
 Savoy, Switzerland : and now back on the coast of France 
 again and intending to try Flanders and Belgium. It seemed 
 that some power impelled her forward, forced change upon 
 her ; for no sooner had she settled down in one spot, saying 
 she should remain in it, than she would suddenly start away 
 for another. Her attendants wondered whether she were quite 
 sane : but she appeared more as one labouring under the 
 torture of a troubled spirit. It seemed like remorse. Remorse 
 for what ? Ah, none could tell. That first foolish supposition 
 of Honour's was surely not a correct one — that the young heir, 
 who stood in her own son's light, had owed his death to her 
 hands ! Nonsense ! It was not likely. But, if so, why, how 
 fearful a retribution had overtaken her ! She must know now 
 that she had perilled her soul for worse than nought ; for the 
 halls of Alnwick and their rich lands were passing rapidly away 
 from her into the hands of strangers ; passing away with her 
 child's life. 
 
 It was a singularly strange thing — and people talk of it yet — 
 but George St. John never recovered that memorable birthday 
 night. The puzzle was — what had harmed him? Had he 
 taken too much? — a fit of over-eating, of indigestion if you
 
 A FADING CHILD. 235 
 
 will, is soon cured in a child. Had he suffered a shock from 
 fright ? — tJiat was not likely to bring on the bodily ailment, 
 the weakness, under which he now laboured. His mother had 
 nsked, asked with feverish lips and eager eyes, what could be 
 the matter with him. No one could answer her then ; he 
 would soon get well, they supposed. She knew — it must be 
 that she knew — all too surely now. George St. John was in a 
 decline — the same disease that had killed his father. 
 
 In writing to her mother in England, with whom she com- 
 municated from time to time, Mrs. St. John had mentioned 
 that she intended to take Belport on her way into Flanders 
 from Normandy, where she now was. She should endeavour 
 to get an experienced English sick-nurse in that Anglo-French 
 town, to travel with them and attend on George, and she 
 should of course see Rose. Mrs. Darling read the letter, and 
 determined she should also see some one else — herself. Char- 
 lotte had been dexterously evading her all these months— as it 
 seemed to the anxious heart of Mrs. Darling. All her over- 
 tures to join her had been declined ; all her plans to reach 
 some place where her daughter spoke of staying were frustrated, 
 because before she could start for it, news came, generally 
 from Prance (who was a private correspondent), that Mrs. 
 Carleton St. John was on the wing again and had left it. But 
 in the very hour that she read of this projected journey to 
 Belport, Mrs. Darling packed up her things in haste, and 
 started. Mrs. St. John had not arrived when she got there ; 
 and Mrs. Darling allowed Rose to think the visit was paid for 
 her especial benefit. This was from no wish to deceive ; Mrs. 
 Darling was of too open a nature for that ; but she had an 
 invincible dislike to speak of the affairs of Charlotte. 
 
 Rose did not exhibit any particular gratitude. She was in a 
 state of chronic resentment at being kept so long at school ; 
 and she was shy at first with her mother, not knowing how 
 much Frank might have communicated to her of the previous 
 autumn's trip in the fishing-boat. As to those two staid ladies, 
 her sisters. Rose made no secret of the contempt in which she 
 held them. Rose was in perpetual hot water with both : they 
 were severe upon what they were pleased to term her v/ildness ; 
 and Rose quietly shrugged her shoulders, French fashion, in 
 return, and called them " old maids " in their hearing. 
 
 Rose carried Madame de Castella's invitation to her mother, 
 and at once received her sanction for the visit. Mrs. Darling,
 
 236 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 unless interest led her the other way, was a most indulgent 
 mother — just such a one as Rose herself would make in time. 
 She mentioned that Frederick St. John of Castle Wafer was 
 located close to the chateau, with some of Mary Carr's friends. 
 
 " Is he rich ? " asked Rose. 
 
 " Rich ! " echoed IMrs. Darling. " Frederick St. John ! He 
 is rich in debts, Rose. Frederick St. John came into a great 
 deal of money when he was twenty-one, but it is all gone ; 
 mortgaged, or something. Frank told me about it. He went 
 the pace, I conclude, as other young men do, and there's no 
 doubt that he gave away a great deal : he is large-hearted. 
 But what had helped to ruin him is his love for what he calls 
 * high art,' his passion for pictures. He is half mad upon the 
 point, I should say : and what with buying up pictures of the 
 old masters, and lavishing money upon the painters of modern 
 ones, and dancing all over the world after galleries that nobody 
 in their senses would ride a mile to see, Frederick St. John 
 and his means parted company. It is impossible to help liking 
 him, though, with all his imprudence. I knew he was out of 
 England — to the reputed sorrow of Sarah Beauclerc." 
 
 Rose pricked up her ears. " Sarah Beauclerc ! One of 
 those Gorgon girls in Eaton Place ? " 
 
 " No, no ; quite the other branch of the family. The 
 daughter of General and Lady Sarah Beauclerc. Since Lady 
 Sarah's death she has resided with the Dean of Westerbury." 
 
 " I think I saw her once," mused Rose, speaking slowly. 
 " One of the loveliest girls living." 
 
 "Frederick St. John seemed to think so, I believe. But 
 your sister Margaret can tell you more about it than I can : 
 she used to meet them last year in town. Captain Budd said 
 there was nothing in it ; it was only a case of flirtation ; but 
 Frank thought he was jealous ; and wanted to make up to 
 Miss Beauclerc himself. By the way, Rose, he has come into 
 his title and is no longer Captain Budd. He is still in the 
 regiment, though : it was said that his uncle, old Lord Raynor, 
 wished it." 
 
 " Mamma," interrupted Rose, " if anything should happen 
 to little George St. John, if he should die— would not Frederick 
 St. John be the heir to Alnwick Hall ? And his brother of 
 Castle Wafer its possessor ? " 
 
 Mrs. Darling started ; she glanced over her shoulder, as 
 though fearing the walls had ears. " Hush, Rose ! Better not
 
 A FADING CHILD. 237 
 
 think of such things. Were you so to speak before Charlotte, 
 I don't know what the consequences might be. No one must 
 breathe a hint that the child's life is in danger — that there's so 
 much as a chance of his dying." 
 
 '' If he be as ill as you give me to understand — and I suj)- 
 pose you have your information from Prance," added Rose, in 
 a spirit of hardihood, for that subject also was interdicted — 
 " Charlotte can't avoid seeing his state herself. She possesses 
 just as much keen sense as you do. mamma, I can tell you that." 
 
 " It is not a question of sense. Love blinds fond eyes to the 
 very worst, Rose." 
 
 Rose threw back her golden curls. "Why does Charlotte 
 go about in this manner? One would think she had St. Vitus's 
 dance. George might stand a better chance of recovery if she 
 would let him be at rest." 
 
 " Rose, you are not to reflect on Charlotte, or on anything 
 she chooses to do," sharply reproved Mrs. Darling. " If she 
 considers constant change necessary for the child, she is right 
 in giving it him. I hope we shall find him better than we 
 anticipate." 
 
 Rose shrugged her shoulders — the retort for the reproof. 
 "I'm sure / hope we shall find him well, poor little fellow. 
 My firm belief is, that Charlotte worries herself with straws — 
 she's afraid for her own sake of losing Alnwick." 
 
 And Mrs. Darling replied by a deprecating gesture. Rose 
 always would have the last word, and always did have it. 
 
 But ah ! how false were these hopes. Charlotte St. John 
 arrived at Belport ; and from the first moment that Mrs. 
 Darling threw her eyes upon the child, she saw that his days 
 were numbered. There was no particular disease ; neither 
 had there been any in the case of his father ; he was simply 
 wasting gradually away ; almost imperceptibly so to those who 
 were about him. 
 
 " Oh, Charlotte ! how thin and worn he looks. He is like a 
 shadow." 
 
 Mrs. Darling's incautious greeting broke from her in the first 
 startled moment He 7a as like a shadow; like nothing else. 
 His face was wan and thin, his cheeks and his blue eyes were 
 unnaturally bright, his little hands were transparent, and his 
 fair and pretty curls looked damp and dead. 
 
 " It is because he is tired," said Charlotte. " He will be all 
 right to-morrow."
 
 238 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Was she really deceived as to the truth, or did she but wil- 
 fully deceive herself? Mrs. Darling thought it was the former ; 
 she had not yet admitted to herself the possibility— not yet 
 seen it— of the boy's death. She was changed, if you will ; 
 changed even more than George ; her beautiful cheeks were 
 haggard and crimson, her eyes had a wasting fire in them. 
 She was quite well, she said ; and so far as bodily health went, 
 there might be no reason to doubt the assertion. Her disease 
 lay in the mind. 
 
 The meeting took place at the Hotel du Nord, for Mrs. St. 
 John declined to accept of her mother's hospitality, even could 
 space have been found in that lady's apartments for their 
 accommodation. Rose had accompanied her mother to the 
 hotel : Mrs. Darling was ever indulgent to Rose over the other 
 
 two sisters. 
 
 " Do you know who I am ? " cried Rose, lifting the little boy 
 upon her knee \ and so fragile did he seem, that a tremor ran 
 through her, lest he should fall to pieces. " I have never, 
 never seen you, George ; do you know my name ? " 
 
 George looked up at the smiling. face; he raised his- poor 
 little weak hand, and pushed away the blue ribbons of her 
 pretty bonnet from her chin ; he touched the golden hair. 
 
 " No, I don't know you," he said. 
 
 " Of course not," returned Rose, in resentment. " Charlotte 
 — your mamma would not talk to you about me, I suppose?^ 
 I am your Aunt Rose, Georgy ; your mamma's sister." 
 
 " Will you come along with us when we go away ? " he asked, 
 much taken with his new aunt. " I wish you would." 
 
 " I wish I could," said Rose ; " though I don't know whether 
 I should get on with— with every one. But I can't ; I am at 
 school ; is not that a shame, Georgy ? And I am going out on 
 a visit in a day or two." 
 
 A pause ensued. Georgy was silent, and breathing, oh, so 
 quickly; Mrs. Darling stood as one not at ease; Charlotte, 
 apathetical as ever, save for the restless fire in the eyes, was 
 looking down into the street between the crimson curtains of 
 the somewhat high salon. Presently George spoke, looking at 
 Rose. 
 
 " I want to go back to Alnwick. I want Benja." 
 " Oh, child ! " exclaimed Rose, in a sort of awe. " Benja 
 is not there." 
 
 "He's gone to heaven," continued George; "but I might
 
 A FADING CHILD. 239 
 
 see him, you know. Mamma sees him sometimes. She saw him 
 the other night when she cried out : she squeezed hold of me 
 so that she hurt me." 
 
 Rose cast an involuntary glance at her impassive sister. 
 Believe she saw a ghost ! — she, Charlotte, the mocker ! No, 
 no ; it could not have come to that. 
 
 "I should have all Benja's playthings; I should ride his 
 pony," went on Georgy. " I should see Brave, Aunt Rose. I 
 want to go home to Alnwick." 
 
 " And the best place for you, my little darling," answered 
 Rose. ''Charlotte, do you hear? This child says he would 
 like to go back home. I'm sure I should think it is only the 
 worry of his being hurried about so from place to place that 
 makes him thin. He is nothing but a bag of bones." 
 
 " I have come to think that Alnwick is not healthy," observed 
 Charlotte, with her usual equanimity. "All the St. Johns die 
 there." 
 
 "Don't you intend to go back to it?" asked Rose, breath- 
 lessly. 
 
 "Not at present; when George shall have grown strong 
 again." 
 
 " Alnwick, his native air, might be the very place where he 
 would grow strong," cried Rose, persistently. " Wouldn't I go 
 to it if it were mine. Healthy or not healthy, I'd reign there, 
 with the county at my feet." 
 
 She laughed merrily ; Mrs. Darling seemed uneasy. Indeed, 
 there is little doubt that the appearance of both Charlotte and 
 the child had seriously disturbed her. She moved past the 
 crimson sofa to the side of her daughter, who was still looking 
 listlessly into the street below. 
 
 " Do you think it well, Charlotte, to abandon Alnwick Hall 
 so entirely to servants? I don't." 
 
 "You may go and live in it yourself, mamma, if you choose. 
 I'm sure I don't care who lives there. The servants keep it in 
 order, I suppose— in readiness for my return? It is all my 
 own now ; that is, it's Georgy's ; and I am responsible to no 
 one." 
 
 She spoke quietly, indifferently, smoothing back the braids 
 of her most luxuriant hair. But for the strange fire in her eyes, 
 the consuming hectic of her cheek, it might have been affirmed 
 that she took no interest in any earthly thing. 
 
 " I am glad to see you have left off your widow's caps, Char-
 
 240 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 lotte," resumed her mother. " They always look sad upon a 
 young woman." 
 
 ''There was no help for leaving them off; we could not get 
 any abroad. Prance contrived to manage them in some way 
 as long as I wore them, but they were never tidy. Where's 
 Honour ? " she suddenly exclaimed, turning her eyes, ablaze 
 with sudden angry fire, on Mrs. Darling. 
 
 Mrs. Darling positively recoiled. And some feeling, which 
 she did not stay to account for, and perhaps could not have 
 accounted for, prompted her to withhold the fact that Honour 
 had been taken in at Castle Wafer. 
 
 "She procured some other situation, I believe, Charlotte, 
 after quitting the Hall. I have never heard from her." 
 
 "A situation ! Where? Not at Alnwick?" 
 
 " Oh dear no ; not at Alnwick ; in a different county ; not 
 very far, I think, from her native place." 
 
 " Mamma, if ever you see her, ask her whether the boy's 
 spirit comes and haunts her in the night ? It may ; for she 
 murdered him. She ought to suffer on the scaffold for her 
 work. I wish she could; I might be more at rest." 
 
 "Oh, Charlotte! Charlotte !" soothingly spoke Mrs. Darling 
 from the depths of her fearful heart, — fearful she knewnot of what. 
 
 " Come and look here ! " interrupted Rose in a whisper. 
 
 They both turned. The little lad had fallen into a light doze 
 on her lap, his wan hand clasping Rose's blue ribbons, and the 
 upright line on his pale forehead seeming to denote that he- had 
 gone to sleep in pain. 
 
 " Charlotte," said Rose, earnesdy, " I'm not used to children, 
 and' don't pretend to understand them as you must do ; but my 
 belief is, that this child wants rest — repose from travelling. It 
 cannot he good for him to be hurried about incessantly. It is 
 wearing him out." 
 
 " You do no^ understand them," returned Mrs. St. John. " It 
 is for him that I move about. He grows so languid whenever 
 we settle down. What should you know about children. Rose ? 
 Are you a nurse, or a doctor? You are not a mother. A 
 chacun son metier." 
 
 " Comme vous voulez," returned Rose, with her pretty shrug. 
 " Charlotte, I am going to visit where I shall see something of 
 a sort of cousin of yours — Mr, St. John." 
 
 " Mr. St. John of Castle Wafer ? " quickly asked Mrs. St. 
 John, with more interest than she had yet displayed.
 
 A FADING CHILD. 241 
 
 " The heir to Castle Wafer, Frederick." 
 
 "Oh — he," slightingly returned Mrs. St. John, and she re- 
 lapsed into apathy. 
 
 " How long shall you remain at Belport, Charlotte?" asked 
 Rose, speaking softly, not to awaken the child, 
 
 "I don't know yet; I shall see how the place suits George. 
 Do you happen to know of a good sick-nurse here, Rose — 
 English ? I hear they abound." 
 
 " I know of one," said Rose, rather eagerly. " And she is 
 
 excellent in these cases of — of " Rose caught back the 
 
 ominous word she had so nearly uttered — consumption ; sub- 
 stituting one for it, however, that proved little better — "of 
 wasting away. It is her spirialitc." 
 
 " Who says he is wasting away ? Who says it ? " 
 
 " Nay," said Rose, " I only thought it, seeing him so thin. 
 I dare say it's natural to children to be thin. She is a most 
 excellent nurse, Charlotte ; a jNIrs. Brayford. I saw her several 
 times in the spring, when she was nursing Adeline de Castella." 
 
 " What was her complaint ? " 
 
 " They feared she was going into a decline. Mrs. Brayford 
 nursed her into perfect health, and she is as strong and well 
 now as I am. I should think she would be the very nurse to 
 suit you, and she is a pleasant sort of woman." 
 
 " Where can I find her ? " 
 
 "Well, I don't know," said Rose. "It can readily be ascer- 
 tained, though. The concierge at Signor de Castella's is sure 
 to know her address. Of course, she may not be at liberty just 
 now, Charlotte ; neither may she be inclined to take a place 
 that involves travelling." 
 
 "Is she one of those monthly nurses? "asked Mrs. St. John. 
 *'I don't like them." 
 
 " No ; I believe not. I will get you her address, Charlotte, 
 and you can send to her or not, as you please. How this child 
 starts ! " 
 
 " He would lie more comfortably on a bed," interposed Mrs. 
 Darling, lifting him gently from Rose's knee. " I'll take him 
 to Prance." 
 
 It was what she had been longing to do — to get to Prance. For 
 ten minutes' conversation with the serving-woman, Mrs. Darling 
 would have given an earldom. The servant met her at the 
 chamber-door, and the child v-'as laid on his bed without 
 awaking. 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. 16
 
 242 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Prance, he is surely dying," breathed Mrs. Darling, as they 
 stood over him. 
 
 Prance glanced round, making sure there were no other 
 listeners. " He is as surely dying, ma'am, as that his father 
 died before him ; and of the same complaint — wasting away. 
 A month or two longer, and then — the end." 
 
 " Your mistress does not seem to see it. Does she see it, do 
 you think ? " 
 
 " I think not. I think she really believes that he will get 
 well." 
 
 " Why does she go about from place to place in this restless 
 manner ? " 
 
 The woman stooped to brush a fly from George's forehead, 
 and she answered with her head and eyes bent down. 
 
 " She says it is for the benefit of the child : that he gets 
 more languid and fretful when we stay quietly in a place than 
 when we are moving about. But in her anxiety, she a little 
 overdoes it : there's a medium in all things. In some of the 
 towns she has not liked the doctors, and then she has gone 
 away immediately." 
 
 "I wish she would come back to Alnwick," lamented Mrs. 
 Darling. " Pym knows the constitution of the St. Johns. No 
 one could treat the child so well as he." 
 
 " I wish she would ! " heartily acquiesced Prance. " I wish 
 you could persuade her " 
 
 Prance stopped, and hastily busied herself straightening 
 George's petticoats. Mrs. St. John had entered the room. 
 
 But there was no persuading her to Alnwick — or to put a 
 stop to this incessant travelling. Only a few days and she had 
 quitted Belport again, taking her retinue with her, amidst 
 whom was the nurse, Mrs. Brayford. 
 
 How strangely do the links in that chain we call fate, fit them- 
 selves one into the other, unconsciously to ourselves.
 
 ( 243 ) 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 ALL M!OUT A STUPID FRENCH INIARIGOLD. 
 
 The invitation sent to tlie young ladies by Madame de Castella 
 had been given at the pressing instigation of Adeline. The 
 nervous, anxious tones of the little notes enclosed from herself, 
 praying them to accept it, at once proved the fact to Mary 
 Carr. 
 
 The return of Signor de Castella to Beaufoy, and consequently 
 the visit of the Baron de la Chasse, had Veen subjected to 
 another postponement of a week ; but then the time was posi- 
 tively fixed, and Adeline knew it would be kept. Her suspense 
 and fears were becoming intolerable. How avoid being often 
 in the society of the baron, when he would be the only visitor 
 in the house ? It was this grave question that suggested to her 
 the thought of asking for the presence of her schoolfellows. 
 Madame de Castella fell all innocently into the snare, and 
 acquiesced at once. Adeline had ever been an indulged child. 
 
 It was almost impossible for Adeline to conceal her terror as 
 the days drew on. She knew her father's haughty, unbending 
 character, his keen sense of honour. He would have been the 
 last to force her into an unpalatable union, and had Adeline 
 expressed the slightest repugnance to M. de la Chasse when it 
 was first proposed, the affair would have been at an end. But 
 she had cheerfully consented to it ; the deeds of betrothal 
 were signed on both sides, and M. de Castella's word and 
 honour had been pledged. Never, Adeline feared, would he 
 allow that betrothal, that word to be broken ; never would he 
 consent to entertain proposals for her from another. 
 
 Now that her eyes were opened, she saw how fearfully blind 
 and hazardous had been the act by which she consented to 
 become the wife of the Baron de la Chasse, a personal stranger. 
 There are thousands who consent in the same unconscious haste, 
 and know not what they do, until it is too late. It is gratifying 
 to a young girl's vanity to receive an offer of marriage ; to an- 
 ticipate an establishment of her own ; to leave her companions 
 behind. Marriage is to her a sealed book, and she is eager to 
 penetrate its mysteries. If a voice from a judicious friend, or 
 a still small voice in her own conscience, should whisper a warn-
 
 244 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 ing to wait, to make sure she is on the right path ere she enter 
 its enclosures irrevocably, both are thrust aside unheeded. So 
 the wedding-day comes surely on ; and soon the once eager 
 careless girl awakes to her position, and beholds herself as she 
 really is — sacrificed. She is the wife of one whom she cannot 
 love ; worse still, perhaps not respect, now that she knows him 
 intimately : there is no sympathy between them ; not a feeling, 
 not a taste, it may be, in common. But the sacrifice was of 
 her choosing, and she must abide by it. Deliberately, of her 
 own free will, she tied herself to him, for better for worse, for 
 richer for poorer, until death shall them part. She has linked 
 herself to him by a chain which divides her from the rest of the 
 world ; every thought of her heart belongs, of right, to him ; 
 she is his companion and no other's, and must obey his behests ; 
 at uprising and down-sitting, at the daily meals and in the 
 midnight chamber she is his, his own, for evermore. 
 
 A strong impression, call it a presentiment if you will, had 
 taken hold of Adeline, that the very first word of disclosure to 
 her father, though it were but a hint of it, would be the signal 
 for her separation from Mr. St. John. She spoke of this to him, 
 and she wrung a promise from him that he would be for the 
 present silent ; that at least during this few days' visit of the 
 Baron's he should continue to appear as he did now — an 
 acquaintance only. Rose would be there, and St. John's 
 intimacy with the family, his frequent presence at Beaufoy, 
 might be accounted for by his relationship to her. No relation- 
 ship whatever in point of fact, as the reader knows ; but 
 Adeline chose to construe it into one. Mr. St. John at first 
 hesitated to comply with her wish It is true that he would 
 have preferred, for reasons of his own — his debts and his 
 estrangement from his brother — not to speak to Signor de 
 Castella just yet ; but he was given to be ultra honourable, and 
 to maintain silence in such a case, though it were but for a 
 week or two, jarred against his nature. Only to her imploring 
 petition, to her tears, did he at length yield, and then con- 
 ditionally. He must be guided, he said, by the behaviour of 
 de la Chasse. " Should he attempt to offer you the smallest 
 endearment, should he begin to whisper tender speeches in 
 your ear, I should throw prudence to the winds, and step be- 
 tween you." 
 
 "Oh, Frederick!" she answered, her cheek a burning red, 
 her face bent in its maidenly confusion ; " endearment — tender
 
 ALL ABOUT A STUPID FRENCH MARIGOLD. 245 
 
 speeches — thej are not known in France, in our class of society. 
 Of such there is no fear. The Baron will be as politely cere- 
 monious to me as though we were ever to remain strangers.'' 
 
 And Adeline was right. 
 
 Late in the afternoon of as hot and brilliant a day as the 
 July sun ever shone upon, the carriage, containing the young- 
 lady guests, which had been sent to Odesque to meet them, 
 drew up at the chateau, in the very jaws of the lions. Mary 
 Carr looked out. There, on the broad steps, in the exact spot 
 where she had last seen him, looking as though not an hour 
 had passed over his head since, stood Mr. St. John. 
 
 He assisted them to alight, and Adeline ran out to receive 
 them, so charmingly lovely in her white morning dress and pink 
 ribbons. Madame de Castella also appeared, and after a 
 cordial welcome, ordered the coachman to speed back with 
 haste to Odesque, or he would not be in time for the arrival of 
 the Paris train. 
 
 " I expect my husband and M. de la Chasse," she explained, 
 addressing her visitors. Mary Carr looked involuntarily at 
 Adeline. She met the gaze, and a burning crimson rushed over 
 her face and neck. 
 
 Before six the party had re-assembled, including Mr. St. John. 
 They were in the yellow drawing-room, a very fine apartment, 
 kept chiefly for show and ceremony, and one that nobody ever 
 felt at home in. The windows overlooked the approach to the 
 chateau ; every one was gazing for the first appearance of the 
 momentarily expected travellers, Adeline growing more pale, 
 more agitated with every minute ; so pale, so agitated, that she 
 could not escape notice. 
 
 "See, see!" exclaimed old Madame de Beaufoy, hobbling 
 to the window. " Is not that the carriage ? — far off, there ; — 
 at the turn by the windmill." 
 
 It was the carriage : the aged eyes were the quickest, after 
 all : and it came speedily on. Two dusty-looking figures were 
 in it, for they sat with it open. Madame de Castella and her 
 sister hastened to the hall to receive the travellers, and the old 
 lady thrust her head out at one of the windows. Adeline had 
 risen in terrible agitation, and was leaning on the back of a 
 chair. Her very lips were white. Mr. St. John advanced and 
 bent over her. 
 
 " My dearest love," he whispered, "you are ill, and I dare 
 not protect you as I could wish. Be under no apprehension of
 
 246 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 any unwelcome scene with him : sooner than suffer it I will 
 declare all." 
 
 He took up a flacon of eau de Cologne, and saturated her 
 handkerchief. Mary Carr was looking on. She could not 
 hear his words ; but she marked his low, earnest voice, his 
 looks, his actions , she saw how it was from that hour. " There 
 will be tribulation in the house, ere this shall be over ! " was her 
 mental exclamation. But she little anticipated the deep 
 tribulation that was indeed to come. 
 
 The Baron did not make his appearance until he had been 
 to his dressing-room. He looked very presentable when he 
 came in, though his hair was shorter than ever, and the curled 
 corners of his yellow moustache were longer. His greeting of 
 Adeline was in this fashion : advancing quickly towards her 
 until he came within three paces, he there made a dead stand- 
 still, and placing his feet in the first position, as dancing- 
 masters say, slowly bowed his head nearly down to the ground, 
 and in ceremonious words, "hoped he had the honour of 
 finding mademoiselle in perfect health." That was all ; he 
 did not presume even to touch her hand : any such familiarity 
 would, in good French society, be deemed the perfection of 
 bad taste. Rose just smothered a scream of delight when she 
 saw the bow, and gave Mr. St. John such a pinch on the arm, 
 that the place was blue for days afterwards. But what a bow 
 St. John received the Baron with when they were introduced — 
 distant, haughty, and seif-conscious , conscious of his own 
 superiority. Certainly, in outward appearance, there v/as a 
 wide contrast, and Mr. St. John, on this particular evening, 
 seemed quite aware of his own personal gifts. De la Chasse 
 was superbly dressed : a blue satin vest, curiously-fine linen of 
 lace and embroidery, with various other magnificent et ceteras. 
 St. John was in slight mourning attire, black clothes, a plain 
 white waistcoat, and not a bit of finery about him ; but he 
 looked, as Rose DarHng said, fit for a prince. 
 
 Dinner was announced. The Baron de la Chasse advanced 
 to the aged mistress of the house, St. John to Madame de 
 Castella, and Signor de Castella to Rose. Miss de Beaufoy, 
 Adeline, and Mary Carr, went in together. It was a formal 
 dinner, and Adeline was sick at heart. 
 
 It happened, in the course of the -following morning, that 
 the three young ladies and the Baron were alone in the western 
 drawing-room—the one, you may remember, opening to the
 
 ALL ABOUT A STUPID FRENCH MARIGOLD. 247 
 
 colonnade. The conversation flagged. De la Chasse, though 
 a sensible man, did not shine in that flowing, ready style of 
 converse so natural to Frederick St. John ; and Adeline seemed 
 utterly spiritless. Mary Carr went upstairs to her chamber, but 
 before she had been there five minutes, Rose came dancing in. 
 
 "Where have you left Adeline?" inquired Miss Carr. 
 
 "Where you did — with the Baron. I thought I might be 
 de trap, and so came away. It is not pleasant to reflect that 
 you may be spoiling a scene, all tenderness and sweetmeats, as 
 Charlotte Singleton calls it. I say, though, Mary, did you see 
 .St. John whispering last night to her at the piano, whilst he 
 was pretending to be engaged turning over for me ? It's 
 satisfactory to have two strings to one's bow." 
 
 Before another word could be said, in rushed Adeline, in 
 high excitement. " Mary ! Rose ! — Rose ! dear Mary ! never 
 you leave me alone with that man again ! Promise it ! — 
 promise it to me ! " 
 
 " What is it ? What has he done ? " they asked, in excessive 
 astonishment. 
 
 " He has done nothing. But I dare not be alone with him, 
 lest he should talk of the future. He has been inquiring after 
 the engagement-ring. Hush ! do not ask me any questions 
 now," concluded Adeline. " I wish to Heaven, Rose, you 
 could induce the Baron to fall in love with you ! " 
 
 " Much obliged for the transfer," said Rose, with a laugh. 
 " Perhaps you'll get him first to dye those appendages to his 
 face ; yellow is not a favourite colour of mine." 
 
 De la Chasse intended to remain but a week. He purposed 
 leaving on Tuesday morning. His visit was passing quietly 
 enough ; there had been no outbreak between him and St. John, 
 only excessive coolness. Had de la Chasse been an Englishman, 
 an explanation could scarcely have been avoided ; for an 
 Englishman would inevitably, by speech, manner, or action, 
 have shown that he was the young lady's lover : but in France 
 these things are managed differently. 
 
 Madame de Beaufoy issued invitations for Monday evening 
 to as many neighbours as were within driving-distance. A 
 soiree dansante, the cards said, when they went out. 
 
 On the Monday afternoon, when the three young ladies were 
 in the western drawing-room together, the Baron entered, and 
 addressing Adeline, formally requested her to grant him the 
 honour of a few minutes' conversation.
 
 248 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 A strange rising in the throat; a dread, that caused her 
 frame to quiver; a terrified, imploring, but unavailing look at 
 Rose and Mary , and the door closed on them, and Adeline 
 and her acknowledged lover were left alone. 
 
 She need not have feared. The Baron did not say a word 
 to her that he might not have said to her mother. But he 
 produced from his pocket the engagement-ring, which had been 
 taken to Paris to be made smaller — it was a plain circlet of 
 gold — and requested she would grant him the honour of 
 allowing him to replace it on her finger. 
 
 Without a word of remonstrance — for what could she say ? 
 — and sick at heart, Adeline held out her hand ; and the Baron 
 ventured ceremoniously to touch it, while he slipped on the 
 ring : in the very act and deed of doing which, the door 
 opened, and into the room strode Mr. St. John, twirling in his 
 hand a French marigold. 
 
 He saw them standing together, Adeline's hand stretched 
 out, and meeting both of his ; and he looked black as night. 
 It has been said, in this book or another, that Frederick St. 
 John was of quick temperament : on rare occasions he gave way 
 to violent explosions of passion. It is probable that an outburst 
 would have come then ; but the Baron, with a polite bow to 
 Adeline, quitted the room. And Mr. St. John, though certain 
 as man could well be that he had no cause for jealousy, gave 
 way to the irritation of his hasty spirit. 
 
 "So, Mademoiselle de Castella," he broke forth, "you have 
 been enjoying a stolen interview with your lover ! I must beg 
 your pardon for having Unintentionally interrupted it." 
 
 She turned deprecatingly to him ; she did not speak, or 
 defend herself from the charge ; but the look of anguish on, her 
 countenance was so keen, the glance at himself so full of pure, 
 truthful love, that the gentleman's better nature revolted at the 
 temper he had shown, and he caught her to his heart. 
 
 " But they were cruel words," she sobbed ; "and just now I 
 have enough to bear." 
 
 " Let this be my peace-offering, my darling," he said, placing 
 in her hand the French marigold. 
 
 St. John had long ago heard the tale of the French marigold, 
 and Miss Rose Darling's sombre forebodings touching himself. 
 He had been assiduously cultivating the flower in the garden at 
 the Lodge, and this, that he now gave to Adeline, was the first 
 which had appeared.
 
 ALL ABOUT A STUPID FRENCH MARIGOLD. 249 
 
 "This ring, Adeline," he said, drawing it from her finger. 
 " He placed it there, I suppose ? " 
 
 "You saw him doing so," she answered. 
 
 He slipped it into his waistcoat pocket, and then drew out 
 his watch. 
 
 " Give me back the ring, Frederick." 
 
 " No, Adeline. It shall never encircle your finger again." 
 
 "But what am I to say if its absence is noticed? He said 
 mamma had given him permission to replace it. She will be 
 sure to ask where it is." 
 
 "Say anything. That it fell off — or wear a glove until 
 evening, I will then tell you what to do. I cannot stay 
 longer now." 
 
 When Mary Carr was dressed for the evening ball, she went 
 into Adeline's room. Louise was putting the finishing strokes 
 to her young lady's toilette, and very satisfactory they were, 
 when Madame de Castella entered, holding in her hand a small 
 circular case. 
 
 " Look here, Adeline," she said, opening it and displaying a 
 costly bracelet, one of beauty and finish so rare, that all eyes 
 were riveted on it. Exquisitely wrought, fine gold links, in the 
 different crossings of which were inserted brilliants of the purest 
 water, with pendant chains flashing with brilliants and gold. 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! " was the enraptured exclamation. " What 
 a lovely bracelet ! " 
 
 " It is indeed, Adeline. It is yours." 
 
 " Ciel ! " ejaculated Louise, lifting her hands. 
 
 " Mamma, how can I thank you ! " she exclaimed, taking the 
 jewels. 
 
 " You need not thank me at all, Adeline. It is the Baron's 
 present. Make your acknowledgments to him." 
 
 Had the bracelet been a serpent, Adeline could not have 
 dropped it quicker, and, but for Mary Carr, it would have fallen 
 to the ground. Madame de Castella thought it was an accident. 
 
 " Don't be careless, child. Put it on. You must wear it 
 to-night." 
 
 "Oh no, no, mamma!" she returned, her cheek flushing, 
 " Not to-night." 
 
 "What nonsense !" exclaimed her mother; "you are as shy 
 as a young child. W' hen the Baron presented it to me for you, 
 he said, * Un petit cadeau pour ce soir.' Clasp it on, Louise." 
 
 " Mamma," she implored, a great deal more energetically
 
 250 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 than Madame de Castella thought the case could demand, " do 
 not oblige me to appear in this bracelet to-night." 
 
 "Adeline, I insist on its being worn. Persons who know 
 you less well than we do, would suspect that afifectation, more 
 than delicacy, induced your refusal to wear a gift from one who 
 will soon be your husband." 
 
 "Not my husband yet," faltered Adeline. "Not until next 
 year." 
 
 " Indeed he will, Adeline," said Madame de Castella. "Before 
 we go to the South." 
 
 Her colour came and went painfully. She sat down, gasping 
 out rather than speaking, the words that issued from her white 
 lips. 
 
 " We go to the South in two months ! ' 
 
 " Dear child," laughed Madame de Castella, " don't look so 
 scared. There's no reason for it : a wedding is quite an every- 
 day affair, I can assure you. This week I write to order your 
 trousseau." 
 
 Louise fastened the bracelet on Adeline's arm, and she went 
 down to the reception-rooms as one in a dream. If the younger 
 guests, as they gazed on her excessive beauty, could but have 
 read the bitter despair at her heart, the strife and struggle 
 within, they would have envied her less. A single string of 
 pearls was entwined with her hair, and she wore a pearl neck- 
 lace ; no other ornament, save this conspicuous bracelet of de 
 la Chasse's. But in the bosom of her low white dress, almost 
 hidden by its trimmings of lace, was enshrined St. John's French 
 marigold. 
 
 The guests had nearly all arrived, and Adeline had done her 
 best towards greeting them, when in passmg in the direction of 
 the colonnade, the Baron came up to her. She was longing for 
 a breath of the evenmg air — as if that would cool the brow's 
 inward fever ! " 
 
 " Permit me to exchange this flower with the one you have 
 there, mademoiselle," he said, holding out a white camellia of 
 rare beauty. And, with a light, respectful touch, he removed 
 the French marigold from the folds of the lace. 
 
 Did de la Chasse suspect who had been the donor of that 
 cherished French marigold? Did he remember seeing it in 
 St. John's hand that same afternoon ? It is impossible to tell ; 
 but' he seemed more urgent over this trifling matter than a 
 Frenchman in general allows himself to be.
 
 ALL ABOUT A STUPID FRENCH MARIGOLD. 251 
 
 " Sir, you forget yourself ! " exclaimed Adeline, angry to ex- 
 citement. " Return me my flower." 
 
 " It is unsuitable, mademoiselle," he rejoined, retaining his 
 hold of the French marigold. "A vulgar, ordinary garden- 
 flower is not in accordance with your dress to-night — or with 
 you." 
 
 "You presume upon your position," retorted Adeline, push- 
 ing aside the white camellia, and struggling to keep down her 
 anger and her tears. " Do not insult me, sir, but give me back 
 rny own flower." 
 
 "What is all this?" demanded M. de Castella, coming up. 
 *' Adeline, you are excited." 
 
 " I have incurred your daughter's displeasure, it would seem, 
 sir," explained the Baron, showing symptoms of excitement in 
 his turn. " Mademoiselle appeared in the rooms wearing this 
 flower — a worthless, common garden-flower ! — and because I 
 wished to present her with one more suitable, she seems to 
 imply that I only do it by way of insult. I don't understand, 
 ma foi ! " 
 
 "Nor I," returned M. de Castella. "Take the camellia, 
 Adehne," he added, sternly and coldly. " Caprice and coquetry 
 are beneath jk^?/." 
 
 The Baron put the camellia in her now unresisting hand, 
 and amused himself with pulling to pieces the petals of the 
 other flower. Adehne burst into a violent paroxysm of tears, 
 and hurried on to the colonnade." 
 
 And all about a stupid French marigold ! 
 
 " Let her go and have a cry to herself," said M. de Castella, 
 walking off with the Baron ; "it will bring her to reason. The 
 coquetry of women passes belief. They are all alike. It appears 
 I was mistaken when I deemed my daughter an exception." 
 
 Adeline, in her tears and excitement, rushed across the lawn. 
 It was certainly a senseless thing to cry about, but, just then, 
 a straw would have ruffled her equanimity. She had been 
 compelled to wear the hated bracelet : she had been told that 
 she would very speedily be made the wife of de la Chasse ; she 
 had stood by him, recognized by the crowd of guests as his 
 future wife ; and, blended with all this, was a keen sensation 
 of disappointment at the non-appearance of Mr. St. John. She 
 stood with her forehead pressed against the bark of a tree, 
 sobbing aloud in her anguish where none could hear her. Pre- 
 sently, her ear caught the sound of footsteps, and she prepared
 
 252 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 to dart further away : but they were some that she knew and 
 loved too well. He was coming through the shrubbery at a 
 rapid pace, and she stood out and confronted him. 
 
 "Why, Adeline!" he exclaimed, in astonishment. And, 
 then, the momentary restraint on her feelings removed, she fell 
 forward in his arms, and sobbed aloud with redoubled violence. 
 
 " Oh, Adeline, what ails you ? \Vhat has happened ? Be 
 calm, be calm, my only love ! I am by your side now : what 
 grief is there that I cannot soothe away ? " 
 
 He became quite alarmed at her paroxysm of grief, and, half 
 leading, half carrying her to the nearest bench, seated her there 
 and laid her head upon his arm, and held her gently to him, 
 and spoke not a word until she was calmer. 
 
 By degrees she told him all. The gift of the bracelet, her 
 mother's threats of the coming marriage — threats they sounded 
 to Adeline — and the dispute with the Baron. Upon this last 
 point she was rather obscure. " I had a simple flower in my 
 dress, and he wanted me to replace it with a rare one, a 
 camellia." She did not say it was the one he had given her ; 
 she would rather have led him to think that it was not : never, 
 until she should be indeed his, could she tell him how passion- 
 ately and entirely she loved. But he divined all ; he required 
 no telling. And yet, knowing this ; knowing, as he did, how 
 her very life was bound up in his ; how could he, only a few 
 weeks later, doubt, or profess to doubt, of this enduring love ? 
 
 ''Adeline," he said, as he paced the narrow path restlessly 
 in the moonlight, she still sitting on the bench, " I have done 
 very wrong : wrong by you and your friends, wrong by myself, 
 ■wrong by de la Chasse. I see it now. I ought to have declared 
 all before he came to Beaufoy. I will see M. de Castella to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 She shivered, as if struck by a cold wind. " Remember your 
 promise." 
 
 " It must be done," he answered. *' I yielded too readily to 
 your wishes, perhaps to my own motives for desiring delay. 
 But for you to be looked upon as his future wife — condemned 
 to accept and wear his presents — this shall not be. It is placing 
 us all three in a false position ; you must see that it is. Neither 
 did I know that the marriage was being hastened on." 
 
 " He goes away to-morrow morning, and all immediate 
 danger will be over," she urged. " Do not yet speak words 
 that might — nay, that would — lead to our separation ! Let us
 
 ALL ABOUT A STUPID FRENCH INIARIGOLD. 253 
 
 have another week or two for consideration ; and of — of happi- 
 ness." 
 
 " I cannot imagine why you entertain these gloomy anticipa- 
 tions," he rejoined; "why think that my speaking to your 
 father will be the signal for warfare. Believe me, Adeline, the 
 St. Johns of Castle Wafer are not accustomed to find their 
 overtures for an alliance despised ; they have mated with the 
 noblest in their own land." 
 
 " Oh, it is not that ; it is not that ! Frederick, you know it 
 is not. — Hark ! " she suddenly broke off, starting from her seat 
 as if to fly. " There are footsteps approaching from the house. 
 If it should be papa ! — or de la Chasse ! " 
 
 " And what if it be ? " he answered, drawing her hand within 
 his arm and raising himself to his full height, in the haughty 
 spirit that was upon him, to stand and confront the intruders. 
 " I will explain all now : and show that you are doing neither 
 wrong nor harm in being here with me, for that you are my 
 affianced wife." 
 
 But the footsteps, whosesoever they might be, passed off in 
 a different direction : and they strolled on, talking, to the 
 borders of the miniature lake. It was nearly as light as day, 
 very warm, very beautiful. White fleecy clouds floated around 
 the moon ; the air, redolent with the odour of flowers, was one 
 balmy breath of perfume ; and Adeline forgot her trouble in 
 the peaceful scene. 
 
 " What made you so late ?" she asked. " I had fancied you 
 would come early." 
 
 '^ I have been to Odesque." 
 
 " To Odesque ! " 
 
 He was drawing a small paper from his waistcoat pocket. 
 Adeline saw that it contained a ring of plain gold. Motion- 
 ing to her to take her glove off — and she obeyed mechanically 
 — he proceeded to place it on her finger ; speaking solemn 
 words : 
 
 '•' With this ring I will thee wed : with my body I thee 
 worship ; with all my worldly goods I will thee endow, until 
 death us do part : and thus do I plight unto thee my troth." 
 
 She knew the slightly altered words were in the English 
 Protestant marriage-service, for she had heard Rose, and some 
 of the other schoolgirls as foolish as Rose was, repeat them in 
 their thoughtless pastime. There was a solemnity in Mr, St. 
 John's voice and manner which imparted an awe to her feel- 
 
 W. G. MEWMJ.. 
 -SIEjIXIIEHIjXj,
 
 254 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 ings, never before experienced. The tears of deep emotion 
 rose to her eyes and her frame trembled : she could not have 
 been more strongly moved, had she in very truth been plighting 
 her troth to him before the holy altar. 
 
 " Take you care of it, Adeline. Let none remove it from 
 your finger as I removed the other. It shall be your wedding- 
 ring." 
 
 "It is not the same ring?" she whispered, unable quite to 
 recover herself. " His." 
 
 "■His! Look here, Adeline." 
 
 He took another ring from his pocket as he spoke. It was cut 
 in two parts ; and he threw thern into the water. 
 
 " There goes his ring, Adeline. May his pretensions go with 
 it!" 
 
 " It is for this you have been to Odesque ? " 
 
 " It is." 
 
 They turned to the house, walking quickly now, neither 
 caring for Adeline's absence to be so prolonged as to attract 
 notice. Long as it may have seemed to take in the telling, she 
 had yet been away from the house but a few minutes. Adeline 
 could not quite forget her tears. 
 
 " If mamma could only be kept from ordering the trous- 
 seau!" she suddenly^ exclaimed, more in answer to her own 
 thoughts than to him. 
 
 " Where's the necessity of preventing her ? " 
 
 She looked up wonderingly, and caught his smile full of 
 meaning, all apparent in the moonlight. 
 
 " The things ordered and intended for Madame de la Chasse 
 — will they not serve equally well for Mrs, Frederick St. 
 John ? " 
 
 " Oh — but " — and her downcast face felt glowing with heat 
 " nothing will be wanted at all yet for — any one." 
 
 " Indeed ! / think they will be wanted very soon. Do you 
 suppose," he added, laughing, " I should be permitted to carry 
 you away with me to the South without an outfit?" 
 
 " I am not going to the South now," she quickly said. 
 
 "Yes, Adeline. I hope you and I shall winter there." 
 
 " I am quite well now." 
 
 " I know you are : and that it will be almost a superfluous 
 precaution. Nevertheless, it is well to be on the safe side. 
 My darling ! " and he bent over her, " you would not be dis- 
 mayed at the prospect of passing a whole winter alone with me ? "
 
 JEALOUSY. 255 
 
 Dismayed ! To the uttermost parts of the earth with him, 
 and for a whole Hfetime Father, mother, country, home — what 
 were they ah, in comparison with him ? 
 
 As they gained the open lawn, a dark figure swept across 
 their path. Adeline shrank at being seen alone with Mr. St. 
 John. It was Father Marc, the officiating priest of the little 
 neighbouring chapel, and the family confessor, a worthy and 
 very zealous man. He turned and looked at Adeline, but 
 merely said, " Bon soir, mon enfant,'" and took off his hat to 
 I\Ir. St. John. Mr. St. John raised his in return, saying nothing, 
 and Adeline bent low, as one in contrition. 
 
 " Bon soir, mon pere." 
 
 She glided onwards to a side door, that she might gain her 
 chamber and see what could be done towards removing the 
 traces of emotion from her face. Whilst Mr. St. John strode 
 round to the front entrance, and rang such a peal upon the 
 tinkling old bell that half-a-dozen servants came flying to the 
 door. 
 
 And as Adeline stood by his side that night in the brilliant 
 ball-room, and watched the admiration so many were ready, 
 unsought, to accord him, and marked the cordial regard in 
 which both her father and mother held him, and remembered 
 his lineage and connections, the fortune and position that must 
 eventually be his, she almost reasoned that overtures for her 
 from such a man could never be declined. 
 
 But the Baron saw that she had thrown away the white 
 camellia. " Petite coquette ! " he exclaimed to himself, in 
 tolerant excuse : not in anger. It never entered into the French 
 brains of the Baron de la Chasse to imagine that the young 
 lady, being under an engagement to marry him, could have the 
 slightest wish to marry any one else. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 JEALOUSY. 
 
 The grey walls of the Chateau de Beaufoy basked idly in the 
 evening sun. In the western drawing-room, M. and Madame 
 de Castella, the old lady, and Agnes de Beaufoy were playing 
 whist. Its large window was thrown open to the terrace or
 
 256 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 colonnade, where had gathered the younger members of the 
 party, the green-striped awning being let down between some 
 of the outer pillars. Mary Carr and Adeline were seated, 
 unravelling a heap of silks, which had got into a mess in the 
 ivory work-basket; Rose Darling flitted about amongst the 
 exotics, hei fine hair shining like threads of gold when, ever 
 and anon, it came in contact with the sunlight, as she flirted — 
 it was very like it — with Mr. St. John. But Rose began to turn 
 cross, for he teased her. 
 
 " Did you write to England for the song to-day ? " she asked. 
 " Ah, don't answer : I see you forgot it. Most of the writing 
 you are guilty of goes to one person, I expect. No wonder you 
 forget other matters." 
 
 " Indeed ! To whom ? " 
 
 " I won't betray you now," glancing at Adeline. " I will be 
 compassionate." 
 
 " Pray don't trouble yourself about compassion for me, ma 
 belle," returned Mr. St. John, in a provokingly slighting 
 manner. " It will be thrown away." 
 
 " Compassion (or yon, Mr. St. John ! Don't flatter yourself. 
 I was thinking of another," 
 
 Adeline looked up : a sharp, perplexed glance. 
 
 "You are mysterious. Rose," said he, laughing. 
 
 "Yes. But I could speak out if I would." 
 
 " I dare you," answered Mr. St. John. " Speak away." 
 
 " You know there is one in England, who monopolizes all 
 your letters — not to speak of your dreams." 
 
 " Rose ! " exclaimed Mary Carr, a dim shadow of Rose's 
 meaning darting uneasily across her. " How can you talk this 
 nonsense to Mr. St. John ? " 
 
 " He asked for it. But he knows it is true. Look at his 
 conscious face now ! " she saucily continued. 
 
 " The only lady in England honoured with my correspon- 
 dence," said he, in a more serious tone th.m he had hitherto 
 spoken, "is Mrs. St. John." 
 
 "That's almost true," cried the provoking girl — "almost. 
 She is not Mrs. St. John yet, only /<? l>e." 
 
 A strange wild spasm caught Adeline de Castella's heart. 
 Would Rose have continued, had she known it ? Did St. John 
 suspect it ? 
 
 " I spoke of my mother. Rose," he said. " She is the only 
 lady who claims, or receives, letters from me."
 
 JEALOUSY. 257 
 
 " Honour bright?" asked Rose. 
 
 "Honour bright," repeated Mr. St. John: "the honour of 
 her only son." 
 
 " Oh, faithless that you arc then ! '' burst forth Rose. " Will 
 you deny that there is one in England to whom your letters' 
 are due, if not sent ; one whose shadow you were for many, 
 many months — if not years — one, beautiful as a painter's 
 dream ? " 
 
 "Bah, Rose ! " he said, his lips curling with a proud, defiant 
 smile, " you are lapsing into ecstasies." 
 
 " Shall I tell her name — the name of his own true lady- 
 love ? " asked Rose, turning round, a world of triumph on her 
 bright, laughing brow. " Mary Carr knows it already." 
 
 "You are out of your senses !" exclaimed Mary Carr, all too 
 eagerly. " Don't impose your fabulous tales on us." 
 
 " Shall I tell it ? " repeated Rose, maintaining her ground and 
 her equanimity. 
 
 " Tell it," said Mr. St. John, carelessly. Did he think she 
 knew so much ! 
 
 "Tell it," repeated Adeline, but it was the motion of the 
 syllables, rather than the words, that came from between her 
 white and parted lips. 
 
 " Sarah Beauclerc." 
 
 A transient surprise crossed Mr. St. John's countenance, and 
 was gone again. Adeline saiv it : and from that wild, bitter 
 moment, a pang of anguish took root within her, which was 
 never to be erased during life. 
 
 " You are under a slight misapprehension, Rose," said Mr. 
 St. John, with indifference. 
 
 " Am I ? The world was under another, perhaps, when it 
 asserted that the honour of Mr, St. John's hand would fall to 
 Sarah Beauclerc." 
 
 " That it certainly was — if it ever did assert it. x\nd I might 
 believe it possible, were the world peopled with Rose Darlings." 
 
 "■ Look here," exclaimed Rose, snatching his pocket-handker- 
 chief from a gilt cage, where he had thrown it to protect the 
 beautiful bird from the rays of the setting sun. " Look at this, 
 ' Frederick St. John,' worked in hair ! " 
 
 It happened to be the handkerchief they had picked up that 
 first morning in the painting-room. Rose talked on, in the 
 recklessness of her spirits; and Adeline sat, drinking-in her 
 words. 
 
 3t. Martin's Eve. 17
 
 258 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " She did this for him, I have not the least doubt. Look 
 how elaborately it is worked, even to the finishings of the crest. 
 It is her hair, Sarah Beauclerc's." 
 
 A random assertion. Rose neither knew nor cared whether 
 she was right. In her present humour she would have stood 
 to anything. It is possible : not likely, but barely possible : 
 that she had stumbled on a bit of fact. Mr. St. John remained 
 supremely indifferent, denying nothing. She talked on in her 
 access of gaiety. 
 
 "This is his favourite handkerchief: I have noticed that. 
 The others are marked with ink. I dare say she gave the 
 handkerchief, as well as marked it. Let it alone, Mr. St. John : 
 I shall show it round, if I like! A rather significant present 
 from so lovely a girl ! But it's known she was folk after him. 
 He reciprocated the compliment then : he was always at the 
 dean's. I don't know how it may be now," she added, after a 
 pause, and there v/as a significant meaning in her tone as she 
 looked to Adeline. Then, with a saucy glance at Mr. St. John, 
 she sang out, in her clear, rich voice, to a tune of her own, 
 
 " It is well to be off with the old love, 
 Before you are on with the new." 
 
 Adeline rose, and passed quietly into the drawing-room, her 
 step self-possessed, her bearing calm : the still exterior covers 
 the deepest suffering. But Mr. St. John suspected nothing. 
 
 " Rose," he said, quoting a French axiom, " vous aimez bien 
 a rire, mais rien n'est beau que le vrai." 
 
 "Ah," she answered, with another, "ce n'est pas etre bien 
 aise que de rire." Perhaps the deepest truth she had uttered 
 that evening. 
 
 With outward calmness there, but oh ! the whirlwind of 
 despairing agony which shook Adeline's frame as she sank 
 down by the bedside in her own chamber ! That in one short 
 minute, desolation so complete should have swept over her 
 heart, and she be able to endure it and live ! I tell you no 
 false story : I am writing of one of those sensitive hearts which 
 must thus suffer and be shaken. To have given up her whole 
 love to one, in a passion little short of idolatry \ to hn.ve for- 
 gotten early ties and kindred in the spell of this strong devotion 
 — and now to be told there was another to claim his vows, 
 another to whom they had first been offered ! 
 
 The dream in which she had been living for months wag
 
 JEALOUSY. 259 
 
 over — or, at least, it had been robbed of its golden colouring. 
 The serpent Doubt had found its entrance into her heart : the 
 fiend Jealousy had taken possession of it, never to be uholly 
 eradicated. 
 
 Frederick St. John was certainly one of earth's favoured 
 people, with his manly beauty and his nxister intellect It 
 seemed to her that the world might worship him without a 
 blush. He had made her life the Elysium that poets tell of; 
 and now she found that he loved, or had loved, another. Like 
 an avalanche falling down the Alps and crushing the hapless 
 traveller, so had these tidings fallen upon her heart, and 
 shattered it. 
 
 Adeline de Castella smoothed her brow at last, and returned 
 downstairs. She had taken no account of the time ; but, by 
 the advanced twilight, it would seem she had been away an 
 hour, and Rose inquired whether she had been buried 
 
 Following Adeline on to the colonnade, where the whole party 
 were now seated, came the old Spanish servant, Silva, bearing 
 a letter for Mr. St. John. The ominous words, " tres pressee," 
 written on it, had caused Madame Baret to despatch it with 
 haste to the chateau 
 
 " Does any one wait ? " he inquired. 
 
 "Si, Senor." 
 
 " It is well," he said, and retreated inside the room. 
 
 " You have received bad news ! " exclaimed Madame de 
 Castella, when he reappeared. 
 
 " I have," he said, with controlled emotion. " I must 
 depart instantly for England." And it was well the shades of 
 evening were gathering, or they would inevitably have seen the 
 death-like pallor on Adeline's stricken face. 
 
 Mr. St. John handed them the letter to read. A dangerous 
 accident had happened to his mother. The horses of her 
 carriage took fright, and she opened the door and jumped out. 
 The physicians feared concussion of the brain. 
 
 "Are you going?" exclaimed M. de Castella, as St. John 
 held out his hand. 
 
 "Yes. I feel every moment wasted that does not speed me 
 on my journey." 
 
 And in another instant he was gone. Without a word more 
 of adieu to Adeline than he gave to the rest. There was no 
 opportunity for it. 
 
 " I don't know that I would have angered him, had I foreseen
 
 26o ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 this," cried Rose, candidly, as she Hngered on the terrace with 
 Adehne. 
 
 " Did you anger him ? " 
 
 " I think I did. A little bit. He should not have dared me 
 to it." 
 
 Adeline looked over the balustrades as she listened, seeing 
 nothing. A painful question was upon her lips ; but her poor 
 sensitive heart — how unfit it was for the wear and tear of life ! — 
 beat so violently that she had to wait before she put it. 
 
 "What you said was not true. Rose?" 
 
 "What did I say?" rejoined Rose, whose thoughts had 
 veered to fifty other things in her light carelessness. 
 
 "That he loved — what was the name? — Sarah Beauclerc' 
 
 The pretty assumption of forgetfulness ! " What was the 
 name ? " As if the name, every distinct letter of it, had not 
 engraved itself on her brain in letters of fire, when it was first 
 spoken ! Rose answered impulsively. 
 
 " It was quite true, Adeline. He knows that it is true. 
 I as certainly believed that he loved her, as that we are stand- 
 ing here. People say she would have been his wife before this, 
 but for the dispute, or estrangement, or whatever it is, between 
 him and his brother. He can't marry until his debts are 
 cleared : and he is Uving quietly to clear them. You should 
 liear v.'hat Margaret says about it ; she told me a great deal the 
 very day before I came here." 
 
 Her crushed heart fluttered against her side. " She is nice- 
 looking, you say ? " 
 
 "Nice-looking! she's beautiful! One of the loveliest girls 
 in society. A fair, proud face, just as proud as his own. 
 Georgina Beauclerc is very pretty ; but she's nothing beside 
 her." 
 
 She could have cried aloud in her anguish as she listened to 
 these praises of her rival : and how she schooled her voice to 
 maintain its calm indifference, she knew not. 
 
 "Who is Georgina Beauclerc?" 
 
 " Her cousin. She's the daughter of the Dean of Wester- 
 bury : Fred St. John's native place, you know. Sarah is the 
 daughter of the dean's brother. General Beauclerc. Her 
 mother's dead, the Lady Sarah ; and since then she has lived 
 with the dean. In point of family it would be a suitable 
 match ; and I dare say in point of fortune." 
 
 " And in point of love ? "
 
 JEALOUSY. 261 
 
 There was a peculiar sound in the hesitation, a tremor which 
 struck on Rose's ear. She turned her face full on Adeline's. 
 
 " I believe with all my heart, from what I've heard, that 
 there 7iias love between them," answered Rose. " Perhaps is. 
 Adeline, I don't say this in ill-nature, but because it may be 
 good for you to know it. I am careless and random in general, 
 but I can be serious ; and I am speaking seriously now. He 
 is a gay-mannered man, you know, a general admirer; those 
 attractive men usually are so ; but I have little doubt that his 
 love was given to Sarah Beauclerc." 
 
 1 Rose went into the room with the last sentence. She had 
 really spoken from a good motive. Believing that Adeline was 
 getting to like Frederick St. John more than was good for her, 
 consistently with her engagement to the French baron, a word 
 in season might act as a warning. Little did Rose suspect 
 how far things had gone between them. 
 
 An hour passed. All save Adeline were gathered in the 
 lighted room. Some wepe playing chess, some ecarte', some 
 were telling Father Marc, who had dropped in, of the young 
 Englishman's sudden departure for England and its cause. 
 Rose was at the piano, singing English songs in a subdued 
 voice. Never was there a sweeter voice than hers : and old 
 Madame de Beaufoy could have listened always to the bygone 
 songs of her native land. 
 
 Adeline had not stirred from the terrace ; she was leaning 
 still on its balustrades, gazing forth apparently into the night. 
 But that Madame de Castella did not observe her absence, she 
 had been called in long ago, out of the night air. 
 
 "Oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy I 
 It is a green-eyed monster, which doth make 
 The food it feeds on." 
 
 That reader of the human heart never put forth a greater 
 truth, a more needed warning. How vainly ! We can smile 
 now, we can wonder at the " trifles " that once mocked us ; 
 but we did not sniile at the time. It is asserted that where 
 there is love, impassioned love, there must be jealousy ; and 
 who shall venture to dispute it ? Love is most exacting. Its 
 idol must not listen to a tender word, or bestow a look of 
 admiration on another. The faintest shadow of a suspicion 
 will invoke the presence of jealousy ; what then when facts and 
 details are put forth, as they had been by Rose ? It had 
 aroused the most refined torments of the distressing passion ;
 
 262 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 and let none doubt that they were playing tlieir part cruelly on 
 Adeline's heart. Not that she believed quite all : the hint that 
 he might be intending to marry Sarah Beauclerc but touched 
 her ear and fell away again. She knew enough of his honour- 
 able nature to be certain that he would never have spoken of 
 marriage to herself, had he been under the slighest obligation 
 of it to another. But that he loved the girl with deep in- 
 tensity, or had loved her, Adeline never doubted. And so she 
 stood on : bitterly giving way to this strange anguish which 
 had fallen on her : wondering how long he would stay in 
 England, and how often during his stay there he would see 
 her beautiful rival. The very fact of his having gone without 
 a loving word of adieu seemed a knell of unlucky omen. 
 
 But what is that movement which her eye has caught at a 
 distance? Who or what is it, advancing with a hasty step 
 from the dark trees ? Ah ! the wild rising of her pulse has 
 told her, before the outlines of his form become distinct, as he 
 emerges into that plot of pale light ! It was he — he whom she 
 thought to have looked upon at present for the last time ; and 
 the ecstatic feeling which rushed over her spirit was such as 
 almost momentarily to obliterate the cruel doubts that 
 oppressed her, He had changed his dress, and was habited 
 in travelling costume. His tread over the lawn was noise- 
 less, and little less so as he ran up the steps to the colonnade. 
 
 " How fortunate that you are here, Adeline ! " he whispered. 
 " I could not go without endeavouring to obtain a word with 
 you, though I doubted being able to accomplish it." 
 
 Adeline, painfully agitated, trembling to excess, both in her 
 heart and frame, murmured some confused words about the 
 time he was losing. 
 
 " I am not losing one precious moment," he explained. 
 " My own preparations were soon made : not to those neces- 
 sary to convey me to Odesque. As it always happens in these 
 emergencies, the spring chaise — and there's nothing else to 
 take me— had been lent out to Farmer Pichon. Baret is gone 
 for it, and will come on with it here, which is all in the way. 
 We shall catch the first train. Why do you tremble so, my 
 love ? " he added, as the fit of ague, which seemed to possess 
 her, shook even his arm. " Are you cold ? " 
 
 Cold ! But most men would have had but the same 
 idea. 
 
 " Now, Adeline, for one moment's grave consultation. Shall
 
 JEALOUSY. 263 
 
 I write, and lay my proposals before M. de Castella, or shall 
 they wait until I return ? " 
 
 " Oh, wait to do so ! " she implored. " In mercy, VN-ait ! " 
 
 " I would prefer it myself," said Mr. St. John, " for I feel I 
 ought to be present to support you through all that may then 
 occur. But, Adeline, should I be detained long, there will be 
 no alternative : the preparations for your wedding will soon be 
 actively begun, and render my speaking an act of imperative 
 necessity." 
 
 She laid her head upon his arm, moaning. 
 
 " Cheer up," he whispered : " I am only putting the worst 
 view of the case. I trust that a few days may bring me back 
 to you. Write to me daily, Adeline : everything that occurs : 
 I shall then be able to judge how long I may be absent with 
 safety. I was thinking, Adeline, as I came along, that it might 
 be better if my letters to you are sent under cover to Rose or 
 Mary. You are aware that I do not mention this for myself — 
 I should be proud to address you without disguise^ — -but for 
 your own peace. Were I to write openly, it might force ex))la- 
 nations on you before my return." 
 
 Ever anxious for her ! Her heart bounded with gratitude. 
 "Under cover to Mary Carr," she said. 
 
 " We must part now," he whispered, as a faint rumbling 
 broke upon their ears from the distance , " you hear my 
 signal. It is fast approaching." 
 
 '' You will come back as soon as you are at liberty?" she sighed. 
 
 " Ay, the very instant. Need you question it, Adeline ? " 
 
 He strained her to his heart, and the painful tears coursed 
 down her cheeks. "God bless you, and take care of you, and 
 keep you in peace until I return ; my dear, my dear, my only 
 love ! " And when he had passed away, Adeline asked herself 
 if that last lingering farewell kiss, which he had pressed upon 
 her lips — she asked herself, with burning blushes, if she were 
 sure it had not been returned. 
 
 And during the brief moments of this sudden interview, she 
 had lost sight of the torment about Sarah Beauclerc. 
 
 The second evening after Mr. St. John's departure, before 
 they had risen from the dinner-table, Silva brought in the 
 letters. Two from England amongst them, bearing on their 
 seals, as Rose Darling expressed it, the arms and quarterings 
 of all the St. Johns. The one was addressed to Madame de 
 Castella ; the other was handed to Miss Carr.
 
 264 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Mary looked at it with unqualified surprise. The fact was, 
 Adeline, not expecting they could hear from Mr. St. John till 
 the following day, had put off the few words of explanation she 
 meant to speak, feeling shy at the task. 
 
 " Why should Mr. St. John write to me ? " exclaimed Mary 
 Carr. But Adeline, who was sitting next her, pressed her 
 hand convulsively, under cover of the tablecloth, to pre- 
 vent her opening it. Miss Carr began dimly to understand, 
 and laid the letter down by the side of her dessert-plate. 
 
 "Why don't you open it, Mary.?" repeated Rose, im- 
 patiently. 
 
 " No," said Miss Carr, in a half-joking manner, " there may 
 be secrets in it that I don't care to read before people." And 
 Rose, whose curiosity was excited, could have boxed her ears. 
 
 " Mr. St. John writes that his mother is better," said Madame 
 de Castella ; " the injuries prove less serious than they were 
 at first supposed. By the next post, he hopes to send us word 
 that she is out of danger." 
 
 " This letter, Adeline," exclaimed Mary Carr, when they 
 were alone — " I fancy it may not be meant for me." 
 
 "You can open it," replied Adeline, timidly. "Perhaps — I 
 think — there may be one for me inside it." 
 
 Mary Carr opened the letter. It contained a few polite 
 words from Mr. St. John, requesting her to convey the en- 
 closed one to Adeline at a convenient opportunity. 
 
 " You see how it is ? " faltered Adeline to her. 
 
 " I have seen it long, Adeline." 
 
 Adeline carried the letter to her chamber to read, bolting the 
 door that she might be free from interruption. It was a long 
 letter, written far more sensibly than are love-epistles in general, 
 for it was impossible to Mr. St. John to write otherwise ; but 
 there was a vein of impassioned tenderness running through it, 
 implied rather than expressed, which surely ought to have 
 satisfied even Adeline. But the bitter doubts imparted by Rose 
 that fatal night cast their shadow over all. Not a moment of 
 peace or happiness had she known since. Her visions by day, 
 her dreams by night, were crowded by images of Frederick St. 
 John, faithless to her, happy with another. Nor did Sarah 
 Beauclerc want a "shape to the mind." The day after St. 
 John's departure, they were looking over the last year's " Book 
 of Beauty," when Rose suddenly exclaimed, as she came to one, 
 "This is very like Sarah Beauclerc ! "
 
 JEALOUSY. 265 
 
 " It was great nonsense, Rose, that tale you were telling us!" 
 cried Adeline, with a desperate struggle to speak calml}'. 
 
 " It was sober sense, and sober truth," retorted Rose. 
 
 " Not it," said Mary Carr. " It was but a flirtation, Rose." 
 
 " Very likely," assented Rose, volatile as usual. " Being an 
 attractive man, Mr. Frederick St. John no doubt goes in for 
 the game, roaming from flower to flower, a very butterfl)-, 
 kissing all, and settling upon none." And she brought her 
 careless speech to a conclusion with the first lines of an old 
 song, once in great vogue at Madame de Nino's : — ■ 
 
 "The butterfly was a gentleman 
 
 Of no very good repute ; 
 And he roved in the sunshine all day long, 
 
 In his scarlet and purple suit. 
 And he left his lady wife at home 
 
 In her own secluded bower, 
 Whilst he, like a bachelor, flirted about, 
 
 With a kiss for every flower." 
 
 Adeline gazed at the portrait. It was tliat of a fair girlish 
 face, wearing a peculiarly sweet look of youth and innocence, 
 blended with pride. No impartial observer could have pro- 
 nounced it so lovely as her own, but the jealous film just now 
 before her eyes caused her to take an exaggerated view of its 
 charms, and to see in it something more than loveliness. It 
 may have been little, if at all, like the young lady to whom 
 Rose compared it; but no matter: to Adeline it was Sarah 
 Beauclerc and no other, and from that moment the image 
 fixed itself indelibly in her mind as that of her envied rival. 
 And yet she believed in Mr. St. John ; she knew he was seeking 
 to win herself for his wife ! Truly they are unfathomable, the 
 ways and fears of jealousy. 
 
 At length, in her intolerable misery and suspense, she took 
 courage, in one of her letters to him, to hint at his former inti- 
 macy with Sarah Beauclerc. What he answered was never 
 disclosed by Adeline ; but that it must have been satisfactory, 
 dispelling even Jier strong jealousy, may be judged from the 
 significant fact that her face grew radiant again. 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. St. John lingered at his mother's bedside in 
 London. All danger was over; and in point of flict the 
 accident had not been so severe as was at first feared. Lady 
 Anne Saville was with her. Isaac St. John was ill at Castle 
 Wafer. It was Frederick's intention to pay his brother a visit 
 ere he returned to France, and get his sanction to the pro-
 
 266 ST. MARTIN'S EVE, 
 
 posals he intended to carry back to M. de. Castella. But 
 this visit was frustrated. 
 
 One afternoon the inmates of Beaufoy were startled by the 
 unexpected arrival of the Baron de la Chasse. Wishing to 
 consult M. de Castella on a little matter of business, he 
 explained, he had done himself the honour and pleasure to 
 come personally, instead of writing. All expressed themselves 
 delighted to see him, except one ; and she was nearly beside 
 herself with consternation. Terrified and dismayed Adeline 
 indeed was ; and she wrote to Mr. St. John before she slept. 
 
 An evening or two later, the whole party were assembled in 
 the billiard-room ,• soon about to separate for the night. A 
 night of intense heat, but there was a strong breeze, and it 
 blew in through the open windows, fluttering the lights and 
 causing the wax to drop. It was nearly eleven o'clock : the 
 last game was being finished — but the Baron was a remarkably 
 slow, deliberate player — when, without the slightest preparation, 
 the door opened, and Mr. St. John walked in. Adeline started 
 from her seat, scarcely suppressing an involuntary cry ; she 
 had not thought he would be back so soon. It seemed that 
 her letter had surprised him in the act of setting out for Castle 
 Wafer. He turned his steps to the Continent instead. 
 
 He looked very well ; very handsome. It seemed to strike 
 them all, after this short absence, though he had no advantages 
 from dress, being in his travelling attire. How could Adeline 
 be blamed for loving him ? A hundred inquiries were made 
 after Mrs. St. John. She was quite out of danger, he answered, 
 and progressing towards recovery. 
 
 " Will you allow me the honour of half-an-hour's interview 
 with you to-morrow morning, sir?" he said, addressing M. de 
 Castella, in a tone which the whole room might hear. 
 
 " Certainly," returned M. de Castella. But he looked up, 
 as if surprised. " Name your hour." 
 
 " Ten o'clock," concluded Mr. St. John. And he took his 
 leave. 
 
 The interview the following morning in Signer de Castella's 
 cabinet lasted an hour. An hour ! — and Adeline in suspense 
 all that time. She could not remain for an instant in one 
 place — now upstairs, now down. She was crossing the hall, 
 for about the hundredth time, when the cabinet door opened, 
 and Mr. St. John came out. He seized her hand and took her 
 into the yellow drawing-room. She trembled violently from
 
 JEALOUSY. 267 
 
 head to foot, just as she had trembled the night of his de- 
 parture for England. It was the first moment of their being 
 alone together, and he embraced her tender/, and held her to 
 his heart. 
 
 "You have bad news for me!" she said, at length. "We 
 are to be separated ! " 
 
 " We will not be separated, Adeline. Strange ! strange ! " 
 he continued, as he paced the room, " that people can be so 
 infatuated as to fancy an engagement of form must necessarily 
 imply an engagement of hearts ! M. de Castella does not 
 understand — he cannot understand that your happiness is at 
 stake. In short, he laughed at that." 
 
 " Is he very angry ? " 
 
 " No ; but vexed. I have not time now to relate to you all 
 that passed, liable as we are to interruption. I told him that 
 the passion which had arisen between us was not of will — that 
 I had not purposely placed myself in your path to gain your 
 love — that we had been thrown together by circumstances, and 
 thus it had arisen. I pointed out that no blame could by any 
 possibility attach to you, though it might be due to me ; for 
 I did not deny that when I saw an attachment was growing up 
 between us, I might have flown before it was irrevocably 
 planted, and did not." 
 
 " Did you part in anger ? " she asked. 
 
 " On the contrary. M. de Castella is anxious to treat the 
 affair as a jest, and hinted that it might be dropped as such. I 
 do believe he considers it one, for he asked me to dinner." 
 
 " Frederick ! You will surely come ? " 
 
 " I shall come, Adeline, for your sake." 
 
 " Oh ! " she exclaimed, with a shiver, " how will it end ? " 
 
 " My dearest," he said earnestly, "you must be calm. Fear 
 nothing, now I am by you. Rely upon it, you shall be my 
 wife." 
 
 " Mr. St. John," cried Rose, as they went into the west 
 drawing-room, "you have brought some music for me, a 
 writing-case for Mary Carr, but what have you brought for 
 Adeline?" 
 
 " Myself," he quietly answered. 
 
 " There's many a true word spoken in jest," said Rose, with 
 a laugh. " You don't think you have been taking f/ie in all 
 this time, Mr. St. John, with your letters to Mary Carr, and her 
 envelopes back again ? Bah ! pas si bete."
 
 268 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 She went, waltzing, on to the colonnade. 
 
 Mr. St. John turned to Miss Carr, and thanked her for the 
 very thing Rose had named. " I presume you know," he said, 
 " that our correspondence was perfectly justified, though I did 
 not wish it declared until my return — that we are affianced to 
 each other ? " 
 
 " I have feared it some time, Mr. St. John." 
 
 "i^mm/it?" 
 
 " Yes. Adeline is promised to another : and the French 
 look upon such engagements as sacred." 
 
 " In a general way. But there are cases of exception. We 
 have your good wishes, I hope ? " 
 
 " Indeed you have. For I fear it may be a matter of life or 
 death to Adeline — according as it may be decided. She is a 
 sensitive plant." 
 
 "And shall be cherished as one." 
 
 It was a most uncomfortable dinner that day. Mr, St. John 
 was present, looking quiet and resolute ; de la Chasse furious. 
 During the afternoon some inkling of the pretensions of Mr. 
 St. John had oozed out, and de la Chasse aspersed him in his 
 absence before them all. After dinner, Signor de Castella led 
 the way to the billiard-room, hoping, probably, that the knock- 
 ing about of balls might dissipate the constraint. But it came 
 to an open rupture. Some difference of opinion arose about 
 the game. St. John was haughty and unbending : de la Chasse 
 gave way to his anger, and so far forgot himself as personally 
 to attack, by words, Mr. St. John. " A spendthrift, who had 
 run through his own fortune, to come hunting after Ade- 
 line's " 
 
 "Vous etes menteur !" shouted Mr. St. John, forgetting his 
 manners, and turning short upon the Baron. But what further 
 he might have said was stopped by Adeline, who, terrified out 
 of self-control, darted across the room, and, touching St. John's 
 arm, whispered him to be calm for her sake. De la Chasse 
 advanced and offered his hand to remove Adeline, but St. 
 John held her by him in haughty defiance. 
 
 "Mademoiselle, you are degrading yourself!" said M. de la 
 Chasse. " Come from his side." 
 
 ' There was no answer from St. John, save a quiet smile of 
 power, and his retaining hold of Adeline. The Baron looked 
 at M. de Castella, but the scene had really passed so quickly 
 that the latter had found no breath to interfere. " Is it fit that
 
 JEALOUSY. 269 
 
 my promised wife should thus be subjected to insult in my 
 presence, sir? " he asked. 
 
 "Adeline," interposed M. de Castella, sternly, "return to 
 your mother." 
 
 " She is my promised wife," said Mr. St. John to the Baron, 
 " and I have a right to retain her here — the right of affection. 
 A right \\\2i\.you will never have." 
 
 De la Chasse was foaming — presenting a very contrast to the 
 cool equanimity of Mr. St. John. " I will not bandy words 
 with him : I will not. Signor de Castella, when your salon 
 shall be freed from that man, I will re-enter it." 
 
 Wheeling round upon his heel, he went out, banging the 
 door after him. For a moment there was silence : St. John, 
 his hold still on Adeline, remained at the far end of the room ; 
 Signor de Castella, half paralyzed with the scandal, was near the 
 billiard-table ; the rest were in a group by the crimson ottoman, 
 Agnes de Beaufoy crossing herself perpetually, Madame de 
 Castella the very image of dismay. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," spoke the Signor to his daughter, who v.as 
 sobbing aloud in her terror and agitation, "do you dare to 
 disobey me ? I told you to go to your mother." 
 
 " She does not disobey you, sir, and never would do so 
 willingly," returned Mr. St. John. " The fault was mine." 
 
 He released his hold on Adeline as he spoke, took her hand 
 with almost ceremonious politeness, and conducted her across 
 the room to the side of her mother. 
 
 " These scenes must be put a stop to, Mr. St. John," cried 
 the Signor. " You received my answer this morning on the 
 subject." 
 
 "Only to re-enter upon it, sir. The particulars which I 
 spared then, I will relate now." 
 
 "I do not wish to hear them," said Signor de Castella, 
 speaking irritably. 
 
 "Sir," calmly interposed Mr. St. John, "I demand it as a 
 right. The Baron has been freely remarking upon me and my 
 conduct to-day, I understand, in the hearing of all now 
 present, and I must be permitted to justify myself." 
 
 "You must allow for the feeling of irritation on the Baron's 
 part. You are neither devoid of cool judgment nor sound 
 sense, Mr. St. John." 
 
 " That is just what I have allowed for," replied Mr. St. 
 John, frankly. " He feels, no doubt, that he is an injured man ;
 
 370 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 and so I have been willing to show him consideration. Any 
 other man, speaking of me as de la Chasse has done, would 
 have — have — been treated differently." 
 
 " Let this unpleasant matter be dropped, Mr. St. John," was 
 the resolute answer. 
 
 " Sir, I beg you to listen to my explanation ; I ask it you 
 in courtesy : it shall be given without disguise. When I came 
 of age, I obtained possession of a handsome fortune. It is all 
 dissipated. I was not free from the faults of youth, common 
 to my inexperience and rank, and I was as extravagant as my 
 worst enemy could wish. But I solemnly assert that I never 
 have been guilty of a bad thought, of a dishonourable action. 
 There is not a man or woman living, who can bring a word of 
 reproach against me, save that of excessive imprudence in 
 regard to my money — and a good part of that went to help 
 those who wanted it worse than I do. Well, about a twelve- 
 month ago, I was cleared out, and had liabilities to the amount 
 of a few thousands besides " 
 
 " Pray do not enter upon these details, Mr. St. John," inter- 
 rupted Signor de Castella. 
 
 "Sir, I must go on — with your permission. My brother, 
 Mr. Isaac St; John, sent for me to Castle Wafer. He pointed 
 out to me the errors of my career : bade me reflect upon the 
 heedless course I was pursuing. I had been reflecting on it, 
 had become quite as awake to its ills as he could be, and I had 
 firmly resolved that it should end : but to a man deep in debt, 
 good resolutions are sometimes difficult to carry out. My 
 brother offered to set me free ; making it a condition that I 
 should marry. He proposed in that case to give up to me 
 Castle Wafer — it has always been his intention to do so when 
 I married — and a very liberal settlement he offered to make on 
 my wife, whom they had already fixed upon " 
 
 " Was it Sarah Beauclerc?" interrupted Rose, who never lost 
 her equanimity in her life. 
 
 "It was my cousin Anne," resumed Mr. St. John, with 
 scarcely a glance at Rose. " But the marriage suited neither 
 her nor me, She was engaged, unknown to her friends, to 
 Captain Saville, and I was keeping her secret. I took upon 
 myself all the brunt of the refusal — for Captain Saville's 
 position, at that period, did not justify his aspiring openly to 
 Lady Anne St. John — and informed my brother I could not 
 marry Anne. High words rose between us ; we parted in
 
 JEALOUSY. 271 
 
 anger, and I returned to London. Ji^'st then my mother's 
 sister died, leaving me some money. It was not very much ; 
 but it was sufficient to pay my debts, and to this purpose it is 
 being appUed, as it is reahzed. By next November every 
 shining I owe will be discharged. I should have preferred not 
 appearing again before my brother until I was a free man, but 
 circumstances have ordered it otherwise. I was about settinc 
 out for Castle Wafer the day information reached me that 
 de la Chasse had again made his appearance here, and I 
 came off at once, without the credentials I should otherwise 
 have brought with me. But you cannot doubt me, M. de 
 Castella ? " 
 
 " Doubt what ? " 
 
 " My ability — my power — to offer a suitable position to your 
 daughter," 
 
 " Sir, the question cannot arise. Though I should very much 
 doubt it. My daughter is not Lady Anne St. John." 
 
 " I should have added that Lady Anne is married ; a change 
 having occurred in Captain Saville's prospects ; and she has 
 cleared up the past to Isaac. My brother is most anxious to 
 be reconciled to me. And I can take upon myself to say that 
 all the favourable projects and settlements he proposed for 
 Lady Anne, will be renewed for Adeline." 
 
 "Then you would take upon yourself to say too much, Mr. 
 St, John : you cannot answer for another. But to what end 
 pursue this unprofitable conversation ? My daughter is pro- 
 mised to the Baron de la Chasse, and no other man will she 
 marry." 
 
 "Sir," cried IMr. St. John, speaking with agitation, "will you 
 answer me one question? If I were in a position to offer 
 Adeline ample settlements ; to take her to Castle 'W^ifer as her 
 present home — and you know it must eventually descend to 
 me — would you consider me a suitable /dr/i for her?" 
 
 " It is a question that never can arise." 
 
 "I pray you answer it me — in courtesy," pleaded Mr. St. 
 John. " Would you deem me eligible in a worldly point of 
 view ? " 
 
 " Certainly. It is an alliance that a higher family than mine 
 might aspire to." 
 
 " Then, sir, I return this night to England. And will not 
 again present myself to you, until I come armed with these 
 credentials."
 
 272 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Absurd ! absurd ! " ejaculated Signer de Castella, whilst 
 Adeline uttered a smothered cry of fear. " I have allowed 
 this conversation to go on, out of respect to you, Mr, St. John, 
 but I beg to tell you, once for all, that Adeline never can be 
 yours." 
 
 " I will not urge the subject further at present," said Mr. 
 St. John, as he held out his hand to bid adieu to Madame 
 de Castella. " We will resume it on my return from Eng- 
 land." 
 
 " You surely do not mean to persist in this insane journey? " 
 abruptly spoke M. de Castella. 
 
 " Signer de Castella," said Mr. St. John, his pale face and 
 his deliberate manner alike expressive of resolute firmness, " I 
 will not resign your daughter. If I could forget my own feel- 
 ings, I must remember hers. To marry her to de la Chasse 
 would be to abandon her to the grave. She is not strong ; you 
 know it ; not fitted to battle with misery. Adeline," he added, 
 turning to her, for she was sobbing hysterically, " why this dis- 
 tress ? I have repeatedly assured you, when your fears of these 
 explanations were great, that I would never resign you to de la 
 Chasse, or to any other. Hear me repeat that assertion in the 
 presence of your parents — by the help of Heaven, my love, you 
 shall be my wife." 
 
 " Meanwhile," said M. de Castella, sarcastically, " as you are 
 yet, at least, under my authority, Adeline, permit me to suggest 
 that you retire from this room." 
 
 She rose obediently, and went towards the door, sobbing. 
 
 " A moment," cried Mr St. John, deprecatingly, " if it is from 
 my presence you would send her. I am going myself. Adieu 
 to all." 
 
 He opened the door, and stood with it in his hand, glancing 
 hesitatingly at Adeline. Her feelings were wrought to a high 
 pitch of excitement, control forsook her, and darting forward 
 she clung to the arm of Mr. St. John, sobbing out hysterically. 
 
 "You wall return — you will not desert me — you will not 
 leave me to Jiim ? " 
 
 He laid his hand tenderly on her shoulder, just as though 
 they had been alone. " It is only compulsion that takes me 
 from you, Adeline," he answered. " Be assured I will not let 
 the grass grow under my feet. When three days shall have 
 passed, look every minute for my return : and then, my darling, 
 we shall part no more."
 
 FOILED! ^73 
 
 Lower yet he bent his head, and kissed her fervently. Then 
 resigned her, turned, and was gone. He was a bold man. 
 
 Adeline flung her hands over her crimsoned face. To 
 describe the astonished consternation of the spectators, would 
 be a difticult task : a kiss upon a young lady's li])s in France is 
 worse than the seven cardinal sins. Madame de Castella es- 
 corted Adeline at once to her chamber, and Miss de Beaufoy's 
 grey hair stood on end. 
 
 • " Bah ! " said the dear old lady. " He is a good and honour- 
 able man, Ferdinand," turning to her son-in-law — " and he 
 means no harm. It is nothing, in English manners. I've had 
 a kiss myself in my young days, and was none the worse for it." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 FOILED : 
 
 A MOST uncomfortable night ; a still more uncomfortable 
 morning. Adeline lay in bed with headache ; and the Baron 
 departed for Paris at mid-day. He believed, with Signor de 
 Castella — though it may be questioned if the latter did believe 
 it, except in speech — that Mr. St. John had taken himself to 
 England for good. He did not cast blame on Adeline : his 
 rage was vented on St. John. As to any affection Adeline 
 might be suspected of entertaining for Mr. St. John, the Baron 
 neither thought of it nor would have understood it. 
 
 The banns of the marriage were put up at the Mairie, and 
 would shortly be published in the newspapers, according to the 
 custom of the country, — " Alphonse Jean Hippolite, Baron de 
 la Chasse, and Adeline Luisa de Castella." The wedding plan 
 was already sketched out : and there is no doubt that this 
 trouble regarding Mr. St. John was hastening matters on. The 
 religious ceremony was to take place at the neighbouring 
 chapel, the civil one at the Mairie at Odesque. A banquet 
 would be given at Beaufoyin the evening, and on the following 
 morning the bride and bridegroom would leave the chateau for 
 Paris. In the course of a few days, Signor and Madame de 
 Castella would join them there, and all four would proceed to 
 the South together. 
 
 Rose was gratuitously free in her remarks on the programme. 
 
 St. Maitin's Eve. 18
 
 274 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. • 
 
 " I'd have seen them further, Adeline, with their French ideas, 
 before they should have made such arrangements for me ! " 
 
 Three days passed, and no Mr. St. John. Adeline was in a 
 sad state of excitement. Good Father Marc, who had loved 
 her since she was a little child, and had her interest warmly at 
 heart, looked at her with deep concern whenever they met. 
 On the evening of this third day he spoke. 
 
 " My child, I am grieved to see you unhappy. This young 
 Englishman was attractive, and it is natural, perhaps, that you 
 should regret him : but his departure renders your course of 
 duty all the more easy." 
 
 The priest thought he had gone for good, then ! Adeline 
 was silent : but she could have thrown herself on the good 
 priest's breast and wept out her sorrow. 
 
 " It is well that he should thus have terminated it, my poor 
 child. Nothing but fruitless dissatisfaction could have attended 
 Ins remaining. Never, under any circumstances, could you 
 have allowed yourself to espouse one of the heretical faith. 
 Best as it is, my child ! May the care of all the saints be given 
 to you ! " 
 
 When the fourth morning arose and did not bring St. John, 
 Adeline's state grew distressing. To what compare her restless 
 anxiety? You are all familiar with the old tale of Bluebeard. 
 "Sister Anne, Sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?" 
 
 "Alas, my sister, I see only the dust from a flock of sheep." 
 
 "Sister Anne, Sister Anne, can you see anybody coming?" 
 
 Thus it was with Adeline. When her eyes ached with look- 
 ing out, and she retired momentarily to ease them, it would be, 
 " Rose, Rose, do you see him coming ? " 
 
 " No, I don't see a soul." 
 
 And then, " Mary ! go to the window. Can you see him 
 coming ? " 
 
 And the day passed like the others, and he never came. It 
 was, indeed, an anxious time with her. Left to herself, the 
 marriage would inevitably take place, for, unsupported by St. 
 John, she should not dare to oppose her father. But, on the 
 fifth m.orning — ah, what relief! — he returned. Adeline, dear 
 girl, look at him : what do you read ? A self-possessed step 
 of triumph, a conscious smile on his fine features, a glance of 
 assured satisfaction in his truthful eye. He comes, indeed, as 
 St, John of Castle W^afer. 
 
 Miss de Beaufoy, Adeline, and Mary were alone ; the rest 
 
 i
 
 FOILED! 275 
 
 had gone over to the farm. He took Adeline's hands in his : 
 he saw how she had been suffering. " But it is over, over," he 
 whispered to her; "I shall never leave you more." 
 
 " It was unwise of you to come back, Mr. St. John," said 
 Aunt Agnes, as she shook hands with him. 
 
 " It was wise of me to go," he cried, a happy flush of triumph 
 on his brow. " Ah, dear Miss Beaufoy, you will soon pay us a 
 visit at Castle Wafer. Where is Monsieur de la Chasse?" 
 
 " He has left for Paris." 
 
 "I am sorry for it. He styled me an adventurer — a hunter 
 after Adeline's fortune. Had he remained until to-day, he 
 might have eaten his words." 
 
 " What is there to hope ? " Adeline could not help whispering. 
 
 " H-ope all, hope everything, my love," was his reply. " / 
 tell you to do so." 
 
 St. John, like an ambassador, had brought his credentials 
 with him. All that he had so confidently asserted to M. de 
 Castella was realized. His brother had received him with 
 open arms, joying over the reconciliation. Solicitors were at 
 once employed to liquidate Frederick's remaining debts, and 
 to set free his property. Castle Wafer would be resigned to 
 him on his marriage, and a brilliant income. He had repre- 
 sented Adeline in glowing colours to his brother, not enlarging 
 on her beauty, which he said would speak for itself, but on her 
 numerous endearing qualities of mind and heart. And Isaac, 
 as he listened, became reconciled to the frustration of the 
 marriage with Lady Anne St. John, and wrote to Adeline that 
 he was prepared to love and welcome her as a daughter. His 
 offered settlements for her were the same as those proposed for 
 Lady Anne, and undeniable. 
 
 Never had Signor de Castella been so thoroughly put out. 
 We are apt to believe what we wish, and he had been suffering 
 himself to assume that Mr. St. John would really not return. 
 Matters seemed to be becoming serious. With a bad grace he 
 received the letter presented to him from Mr. Isaac St. John. 
 It contained formal proposals for Adeline, with an explanatory 
 detail of what has been stated above, submitting the whole to 
 Signor de Castella's approval. The letter also preferred a 
 request, which Frederick was to urge in person, that the Signor 
 and his family would at once visit Castle Wafer and become 
 acquainted with the home to which he consigned his child. 
 The marriage could then take place as soon as was convenient,
 
 276 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 either in England or France, as might be agreed upon ; aftei 
 which, Frederick would take her to a warmer clime for the 
 winter months. 
 
 Annoyed as M. de Castella was, he could not but be flattered 
 at the honour done him, for he well knew that Isaac St. John 
 of Castle Wafer might aspire, for his brother, to a higher 
 alliance than this would be. But he showed his vexation. 
 
 " You have acted improperly, Mr. St. John, both towards me 
 and towards your brother. Pray, did you tell him that Adeline 
 was all but the wife of another ? " 
 
 " I told him everj'thing," said Mr. St. John, firmly ; " and he 
 agreed with me, that for Adeline's own sake, if not for mine, 
 she must be rescued from the unhappiness which threatens 
 her." 
 
 "You are bold, sir," cried M. de Castella, a flush of anger 
 rising to his brow. 
 
 " I am," returned Mr. St. John, " bold and determined. You 
 must pardon the avowal. It would ill become me to be other- 
 wise, when so much is at stake." 
 
 M. de Castella wheeled back his easy-chair as he sat, the 
 only diversion from the uncomfortable 'straight-backed seats 
 which graced his cabinet. " Listen to me," he said ; " I hope 
 finally. Your journey to Castle Wafer, as I warned you it 
 would be, has been worse than profitless : our conversation is 
 the same. No human entreaty or menace — could such be 
 offered me — would alter my determination one iota. Adeline 
 V;ill marry de la Chasse." 
 
 " I have abstained from urging my own feelings," said Mr. 
 St. John, warmly, " but you must be aware that my happiness 
 is at stake. My whole future, so to speak, is bound up in 
 Adeline." 
 
 " You do well not to urge them ; it would make no difference. 
 I am sorry ; but it would not. This must end, Mr. St. John. 
 I have already expressed my acknowledgments to you for the 
 honour done me in your wish for an alliance ; I shall express 
 them presently to your brother. And I have no objection to 
 confess, that, under other circumstances, I might have been 
 tempted to entertain it, in spite of the difference in our faitli. 
 But the barriers between you and Adeline are insuperable." 
 
 " Oh, M. de Castella, pray reflect. I have been bred with as 
 nice a sense of honour as you : I venture to say it : and I trust 
 I shall never be guilty of aught to tarnish that honour. But I
 
 FOILED! 277 
 
 should deem it an unrighteous thing to sacrifice to it a fellow- 
 creature's happiness, and she an only child." 
 
 " Oh, tush ! Sacrifice ! — happiness ! These chimeras of the 
 imagination are not recognized by us. Adeline may rebel in 
 spirit — may repine for a week or two, but when once she is 
 married to the Baron, she will settle down contentedly enough." 
 
 " You are killing her," exclaimed St. John, in some excite- 
 ment. " You may not see it, but what I tell you is true. The 
 painful suspense and agitation she has been exposed to lately, 
 if continued, would kill her." 
 
 "Then if such be your opinion, Mr. St. John," returned the 
 Signer, sarcastically, "you should put an end to it by with- 
 drawing yourself." 
 
 " I will not withdraw ; I will not give up Adeline. I am 
 more worthy of her than he is." 
 
 " You have been highly reprehensible throughout the affair. 
 You knew that Adeline was promised to another, and it was 
 your duty to fly the place, or at least absent yourself from her, 
 when you found an attachment was arising." 
 
 " I don't know that I was awake to it in time. But if I had 
 been, most likely I slrould not have flown. Had I been needy, 
 as that man called me, or one whose rank were inferior to hers, 
 then my duty would have been plain ; but the heir to Castle 
 Wafer has no need to fly like a craven." 
 
 " Not on that score — not on that score. Had Adeline been 
 but a peasant and engaged to another, you should have 
 respected that engagement, and left her free." 
 
 " I did not set myself out to gain her love. I assure you, 
 Signor, that the passion which grew up between us was unsought 
 on either side. It was the result of companionship, of similar 
 tastes and sympathies ; and it was firmly seated, I am con- 
 vinced, in both our hearts, before I ever uttered a word, or gave 
 way to an action that could be construed into a wooing one. 
 And you will forgive me for reminding you, that had Adeline 
 regarded de la Chasse with the feelings essential to render a 
 marriage with him happy, she must have remained indifferent 
 to me." 
 
 " Our conference is at an end," observed M. de Castella, 
 rising : " I beg to state that I can never suffer it to be renewed. 
 Finally : I feel obliged, flattered, by the honour you would 
 have done Adeline, but I have no alternative but to decline it." 
 
 " You have an alternative, Signor de Castella."
 
 278 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 ^^ I have none. I have none, on my honour. Will you be 
 the bearer of my despatch to Castle Wafer ? " 
 
 " No. I shall remain where I am for the present." 
 
 " I cannot pretend to control your movements, Mr. St. John, 
 but it will be well that you absent yourself until after my 
 daughter's marriage. Where you to come in contact with the 
 Baron, much unpleasantness might ensue." 
 
 " He is not here. Therefore at present that question cannot 
 arise." 
 
 " I have no wish that our friendship should terminate : I may 
 add that I do not wish it even to be interrupted, if you will but 
 be reasonable. You must be aware " — and for a moment the 
 Signor relapsed into a tone of warm cordiality — " that we have 
 all liked you very much, Mr. St. John, and have enjoyed your 
 society in an unusual degree. Indeed it is this very feeling for 
 you which has thrown difficulties in the way : but for that, the 
 house would have been closed to you on your first rejection. 
 You may stay where you are, and welcome ; you may come 
 still and see us, and welcome ; provided you will exercise 
 common sense, and allow matters to take their proper course." 
 
 Mr. St. John made no reply whatever. He said good morn- 
 ing, and left the cabinet, nearly running against Father Marc, 
 who was waiting to enter it. 
 
 After that there ensued what might be called a lull in the 
 storm. St. John came occasionally to Beaufoy, sometimes met 
 Adeline, by chance as it seemed, out of doors ; but nothing 
 more was heard of his pretensions. Meanwhile active prepara- 
 tions for the wedding went on: and the two young lady visitors 
 ])rolonged their stay, having obtained leave from home and 
 from Madame de Nino to do so. 
 
 And now we have to approach a phase of the history upon 
 which it is not pleasant to touch. Mr. St. John made one final 
 effort to shake the resolve of Signor de Castella ; or, rather, 
 attempted to make it, but was met by a peremptory command 
 never to introduce the subject again. After that, it appeared 
 to him that there was only one alternative, and he cautiously 
 ventured to break it to Adeline — that of flying with him. It 
 was received with terror and reproach — as was only natural ; 
 she felt indeed inexpressibly shocked, not only at the proposi- 
 tion itself, but that he should make it. But Mr. St. John 
 persevered. He attempted reason first : if she did not take 
 this step, how would she avoid the marriage with de la Chasse ?
 
 FOILED ! 279 
 
 He brought forth arguments of the most persuasive eloquence : 
 and reasoning eloquence is convincing, when it comes from 
 beloved lips. 
 
 Let us give St. John his due. He truly thought, in all honour, 
 that he was acting for the best, for Adeline's welfare. It could 
 scarcely be called an elopement that he was urging, since he took 
 measures for it to be countenanced and assisted by his family. 
 He told them the whole case, the entire truth ; he implored 
 them, for Adeline's sake, to save her. To follow the progress 
 of the matter day by day, step by step, would be useless : it is 
 sufficient to say that he at length wrung a tardy and most 
 reluctant consent from Adeline. 
 
 It wanted but three days to that fixed for the grand wedding, 
 when she stood with him in the shrubbery in the twilight of the 
 hot evening. There was indeed little time to lose, if she was 
 to be saved. He put into her hand a letter addressed to her 
 by his mother. 
 
 *' My dear Mademoiselle de Castella, 
 
 " Frederick writes me word that you demurred to 
 the arguments of my last letter, as being used only out of 
 courtesy to you. You judge perfectly right in believing that I 
 look upon elopements with a severe eye ; every gentlewoman 
 does so, if she be conscientious. But your case appears to be 
 a most peculiar one. Your whole future happiness, perhaps 
 life, is at stake ; and I really do think Frederick is right in 
 saying that it is a duty before Heaven to save you from this 
 obnoxious marriage that is being forced upon you. It is a 
 cruel thing to sacrifice you merely to the pledging of a word — 
 and that is so, if I understand the matter rightly. Signor de 
 Castella has stated (in his letter to my step-son, Mr. Isaac St. 
 John) that were it not for this unlucky previous contract to 
 which he is plighted, he should be proud of the alliance with 
 Frederick ; that to him personally he has no sort of objection. 
 To tell you the truth, it appeared to me, from the wording of 
 this letter (which my step-son sent up for my perusal) that your 
 father would be glad of a pretext for breaking the contract, but 
 that it seemed to him a simple impossibility that any such 
 pretext could be found. It is this fact — though it may be better 
 to call it opinion — which was my chief inducement to counte- 
 nance the step now contemplated by Frederick. And if it 
 must take place (and, as I say, I see no other way of escape
 
 c8o ■ ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 for you), it is better that it should be done with my sanction •. 
 which will absolve you afterwards in the judgment of the world. 
 
 " I am not sufficiently recovered to travel to the coast, as 
 Frederick wished, but Lady Anne Saville has offered to supply 
 my place. She leaves with her husband for Folkestone the 
 day after to-morrow, and will receive you there from Frederick's 
 hands. She will conduct you at once to London, to my house, 
 where you will remain my guest until the marriage, which of 
 course must take place at once ; after which, you will leave for 
 Castle Wafer, and pass there a brief sojourn before you start 
 for the South. The settlements are here, waiting for your 
 signature and Frederick's : Mr. Isaac St. John has already 
 affixed his, and he will be in London before you arrive. 
 
 " I am impatient to receive and welcome you. Believe me, 
 my dear child, that I will always endeavour to be to you an 
 affectionate mother. 
 
 " Selina St. John." 
 
 "You will be in readiness to-morrow night," he whispered, as 
 she closed the letter. 
 
 "When are we to be married.^" she asked, after a pause. 
 She might well bend her sweet face downwards as she asked it. 
 
 " Adeline, you see what my mother says. I have written to 
 procure a special licence, so that the Protestant ceremony shall 
 be performed on our arrival, securing us from separation. 
 Should the forms of your own religion require any delay, which 
 I do not anticipate, you will remain with my mother until they 
 can be completed. My home in town is at Mivart's." 
 
 " You — you will be kind to me ? " she flUtered, bursting into 
 tears. " I am leaving a happy home, my mother, my father, 
 the friends of my childhood, I am leaving all for you ; you will 
 be ever kind to me ? " 
 
 "Adeline," he interrupted, "how can you ask the question? 
 I am about to make you my dear wife ; I will cherish you as 
 you never yet were cherished. Your parents have loved you 
 dearly, but not with such a love as mine. Heaven helping me, 
 your life shall be one dream of happiness. No mother ever 
 watched over her first-born, as I will watch over and cherish you." 
 
 Save for the wild beating of her heart, as his hand lay against 
 it, he might have thought her cold, so still did she stand. It 
 was the impassioned repose of all-perfect love, too deep, too 
 pure for utterance,
 
 FOILED ! 281 
 
 " You are leaving this home for one more beautiful," he con- 
 tinued : "you Nvill forgive me for saying so when you see Castle 
 Wafer. A home where you will reign its idol. I speak not 
 now of myself. Its retainers are tried and faithful : they have 
 been ours from generation to generation. They served my 
 father, they have served my brother, they will serve me ; and 
 you, their mistress, will be revered and worshipped. It will be 
 a happy home. We may sojourn occasionally in foreign lands ; 
 mingle in the gaieties of the world ; but we shall return to it 
 with a zest that in time will render us loth to quit it. There 
 we will bring up our children, training them to goodness ; there 
 we will learn to live, so that we may become worthy to inherit 
 a better world : the mode of worship may be different, but the 
 faith and end are the same — one hope, one heaven, one God. 
 Oh, Adeline, put away all fear for the future, all doubt of me, 
 if indeed you could have such ! I would bid another trust to 
 my honour, I conjure you to confide in my love." 
 
 As they turned to the house, after a few hasty moments given 
 to the arrangement of their plans, a sudden cough, sounding 
 very near, startled them. St. John stei)ped aside a few paces, 
 and saw, seated on a bench. Father Marc. Could he have 
 been there long ? If so, he must have heard more than was ex- 
 pedient, for he understood English. St. John bit his lip with 
 vexation. 
 
 " Are you there, father ? " 
 
 " I have this instant sat down, my son. I am no longer 
 young, and my legs pain me when I walk far. My course this 
 evening has been a long one." 
 
 "He may have come up only now," was the mental con- 
 clusion of Mr. St. John. 
 
 " Is that Mademoiselle with you ? " resumed the priest — for 
 Adeline, in her vexation, did not come prominently forward. 
 " Should the child be abroad in the night-air ? " 
 
 " No. I am going to take her indoors. But it is not night 
 yet." 
 
 Not yet : it was twilight still : but a dampness was already 
 arising, the effect of the day's heat. The weather was very 
 sultry, even for the close of August, the days being one blaze 
 of sunshine. Adeline hastened in : she had been away not 
 much more than five minutes, but she dreaded being missed. 
 
 The plan for getting away was this. On the following night 
 Adeline was to retire to her chamber early, under plea of head-
 
 282 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 ache, or some other slight indisposition ; and, after dismissing 
 Louise, to habit herself as she deemed suitable for her journey. 
 She was then to steal downstairs and out of the house, before 
 it was locked up for the night, and join Mr. St. John in the 
 garden, who would be awaiting her. The same nondescript 
 vehicle, which was a sort of long gig with a white calico head 
 to it, that had served Mr. St. John on a previous occasion, and 
 was both light and fleet, would be in readiness to convey them 
 to Odesque. There they would take the night-train from 
 Amiens to Boulogne and go at once on board the Folkestone 
 steamer, Mr. St. John having taken care to ascertain that the 
 tide served at a suitable hour for them, the steamer starting 
 early in the morning. Once at Folkestone, he resigned her 
 into the charge of Captain and Lady Anne Saville. By these 
 means they hoped to get a whole night's start before the 
 absence of Adeline was discovered at Beaufoy. The scheme 
 appeared feasible enough in theory. But — in practice ? that 
 remained to be proved. 
 
 The eventful day arose ; and what a day it was for Adeline ! 
 Not only was Adeline de Castella a bad one to carry on any 
 sort of deception, but she looked upon the act she was about 
 to commit, the quitting clandestinely her father's home, as a 
 very heinous crime indeed. It was not her love for Mr. St. 
 John that took her: swayed by that alone, she had not dared 
 to do it : it was her intense horror of becoming the wife of 
 Alphonse de la Chasse. Could she only have changed natures 
 for that one day with Miss Rose Darling ! 
 
 But the day was got through somehow, even by Adeline, and 
 evening drew on. After dinner they were sitting in the 
 favourite room, the western drawing-room, when Mr. St. John 
 came in. Some of them looked up in surprise : his visits 
 latterly had been rare. He was unusually silent and thought- 
 ful, and little was said by any one. Signor de Castella was 
 playing chess with Agnes, and did not speak to him after the 
 first greeting. Old Madame de Beaufoy was playing ecarte 
 with Mary Carr. 
 
 An ominous spirit of dulness seemed to sit upon them all. 
 The room seemed so intensely still. Rose, who h;\ted dulness 
 as she hated poison, started up and opened the pii no, hoping 
 perhaps to dispel it, and began to look amidst vhe pile of 
 music. She chose an old song ; an out-of-date by -gone song 
 that she had not sung for months, perhaps years. How came
 
 FOILED ! 283 
 
 she to hunt it up ? It was a strange coincidence ; litlle less 
 than a fatality. The song was " Kathleen Mavourneen." Had 
 any one asked Rose to sing it, she would have cast back a 
 sarcasm on the "perverted taste," on "English ideas," "vandal- 
 ism," and commenced instead some new Italian or German 
 thing, and screamed it through in defiance. On this night she 
 began the song of her own accord ; and I say it was a fatality. 
 
 '' To tliink that from Erin and thee I must part — 
 It may be for years, and it may be for ever " 
 
 Thus far had Rose sung, when deep sobs startled her. They 
 came from Adeline. She had been leaning back in her grand- 
 mamma's fauteuil, pale and quiet, but full of inward agitation. 
 The song seemed singularly applicable to her, and she had 
 listened to its words as they went on with an oppressed heart. 
 Singularly applicable ! She was leaving her country, her home, 
 and her dear parents, it might be for years, or it might be for 
 ever. In these moments of sadness, a straw will unhinge the 
 outward composure. Adeline's sobs burst forth with violence, 
 and it was entirely beyond her power to control them. The 
 whole room looked up in amazement, and Rose brought her 
 song to a sudden standstill. 
 
 ISIr. St. John, who was near the piano, strode forward im- 
 pulsively towards Adeline ; but arrested his steps half way, and 
 strode as impulsively back again. Anxious inquiries were 
 pressed upon Adeline, and her mother laid down her em- 
 broidery and went to her. Adeline seemed to recover herself 
 by magic, so far as outward calmness went. She excused her- 
 self in few words : it was a fit of low spirits ; she had not felt 
 well all day, and Rose's song had affected her ; the feeling had 
 passed now. Mr. St. John whispered to Rose to begin another 
 song, and she did so. He then wished the party good night, 
 and left. By-and-by, Adeline, pleading fatigue, said she would 
 go to bed. 
 
 "Do so, dear child," acquiesced her mother; "you don't 
 seem very well." 
 
 " Good night, dear, dear mamma," she said, clinging round 
 her mother's neck, while the rebellious tears again streamed 
 from her eyes. She Avould have given half the anticipated 
 happiness of her future life for her mother to have blessed her, 
 but she did not dare to ask it. She approached her father 
 last, hesitatingly; kissed him — a most unusual thing, for he
 
 284 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 was not a man to encourage these familiarities, even from his 
 daughter — and left the room struggling convulsively to suppress 
 her sobs. 
 
 After sitting in her chamber a few minutes, to recover 
 serenity, she rang for Louise. Up came that demoiselle, in 
 open surprise that her young lady should have retired so early. 
 Adeline said she had a headache, let her take off her dress, and 
 then dismissed her. 
 
 Adeline bolted the door and began to look around her. 
 Shock the first : her wardrobe was locked and the key gone. 
 The dress and bonnet she meant to wear were in it ; so she had 
 to ring again. 
 
 " I want the key of the wardrobe," she said, when Louise 
 entered. " It is locked." 
 
 Louise felt in her pocket, brought forth the key, and threw 
 the doors back on their hinges. " What should she give to 
 mademoiselle ? " 
 
 This was difficult to answer. At any other time Adeline 
 would have ordered her to leave the wardrobe open, and go. 
 But her self consciousness and dread of discovery caused her 
 to hesitate then. 
 
 " I want — a— pocket-handkerchief," stammered Adeline. 
 
 Sharply the doors were flung to again, locked, and the key 
 returned to Louise's pocket. " Parbleu, mademoiselle," was 
 her exclamation, turning to a chest of drawers, "as if your 
 handkerchiefs were kept in the wardrobe ! " 
 
 Adeline knew they were not as well as Louise, but just then 
 she had not her wits about her. She was growing desperate. 
 
 " One would think we had a thief in the house, by the way 
 you keep places locked," she exclaimed. " Leave the wardrobe 
 open, Louise." 
 
 " Indeed, and we have something as bad as a thief," 
 answered Louise, grumblingly. "If Susanne wants anything 
 for madame, and thinks she can find it here, she makes no 
 scruple of coming and turning about mademoiselle's things. 
 Only three days ago it took me an hour to put them straight 
 after her." 
 
 " Well, leave the wardrobe open for to-night," said Adeline : 
 "you can lock it again to-morrow, if you will." And Made- 
 moiselle Louise swung the doors back again, and quitted the 
 room. 
 
 Adeline proceeded to dress herself. She put on a dark silk
 
 FOILED ! 28s 
 
 dress, a light thin cashmere shawl, and a straw bonnet trimmed- 
 •with white ribbons. She also threw over her shoulders a costly 
 silk travelling cloak, lined and trimmed with ermine. It had 
 been a present to her from Madame de Beaufoy against her 
 journey to the South. She was soon ready, but it was scarcely 
 time to depart. She was pale as death ; so pale that the reflec- 
 tion of her own face in the glass startled her. Her head swam 
 round, her limbs trembled, and she felt sick at heart. She 
 began to doubt if she should have strength to go. She sat 
 down and waited. 
 
 The minutes passed rapidly : it would soon be time, if she 
 went at all. She felt in her pocket : all was there. Her purse, 
 containing a few Napoleons ; her handkerchief; a small phial of 
 Cologne water ; and a little case containing his gifts and letters. 
 
 She arose and placed her hands upon the lock of the door ; 
 but, too ill and agitated to proceed, turned round, drank a 
 glass of water, and sat down again. The longer she stopped, 
 the worse she grew ; and, making a desperate effort, she ex- 
 tinguished the light, opened the door, and glided to the top of 
 the stairs. 
 
 All seemed quiet. She could hear the murmur of the 
 servants' voices in their distant apartments, nothing else, and 
 she stole noiselessly down the staircase, and across the lighted 
 hall. As she was opening the front door, some one came out 
 of the western drawing-room, and Adeline, with a quick, 
 nervous effort, passed through, before whoever it was should be 
 in sight, pulling the door gently after her. 
 
 Oh, misery ! oh, horror ! Planted at the foot of the steps, 
 right in front of her, as if he had stopped on the spot and 
 fallen into a reverie, was the priest, Father Marc. He glided 
 up the steps, and seized her arm ; and Adeline cried out, Avith 
 a shrill, startled cry. 
 
 It was heard by Mademoiselle de Beaufoy, who was crossing 
 the hall, and she came running out. It was heard by Mr. St. 
 John from his hiding-place, behind one of the lions of the 
 fountain, and he hastened forward. 
 
 "Oh, Adeline, mistaken child, what is this?" exclaimed her 
 aunt. " You would leave your home clandestinely ! you, 
 Adeline de Castella ! " 
 
 " Aunt ! aunt ! have mercy on me ! I — I do believe I am 
 dying ! I would rather die than go through what I have gone 
 through lately ! "
 
 286 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 "And better for you," was the stern reply. "Death is 
 preferable to dishonour." 
 
 She was interrupted by the appearance of Mr. St. John. 
 Adeline broke from her aunt and the priest, and fell forward in 
 his arms, with a smothered cry : " Oh, Frederick ! Frederick ! 
 protect me in this dreadful hour ! " 
 
 Agnes de Beaufoy flew into the drawing-room, crying out 
 that Mr. St. John was running away with Adeline, and they 
 all went flocking out. St. John's first effort was an attempt to 
 soothe Adeline : his second to bear her into the house. The 
 priest, a kind-hearted man, went away in the direction of his 
 chapel. 
 
 For some time all was astonishment and confusion. Every 
 one seemed to be talking at once, reproaching Mr. St. John. 
 She still clung to him, as if to part with him would be to part 
 with life ; and he protected her valiantly. The first distinguish- 
 able words were from Signor de Castella. 
 
 " So this is the recompense we receive from you ! basely to 
 betray her ! to lead her to dishonour ! " 
 
 St. John was paler than they ever remembered to have seen 
 him, but his voice and bearing were perfectly calm. " I was 
 leading her away to happiness," he answered ; " ere many hours 
 had elapsed she would have been my honoured wife. Had 
 my mother been well, she would have received her at Folke- 
 stone, but she is unable yet to quit her room, and Lady Anne 
 Saville, than whom one of higher character and consideration 
 does not exist, is there awaiting her, accompanied by her 
 husband. My brother vacates Castle Wafer for her reception ; 
 the settlements, as they were proposed to you, are drawn up, 
 awaiting our signatures ; and until the marriage could have 
 taken place — had there been but an hour's delay — Adeline 
 would have remained under my mother's roof and protection, 
 conducted to it by Lady Anne. There are the vouchers for 
 what I assert," he added, throwing some letters on the table, 
 "/lead her to dishonour! Had you, Signor de Castella, 
 evinced the consideration for her happiness, that I have for her 
 honour, there would not now be this dispute." 
 
 " And you, shameless girl, thus to disgrace your name ! " 
 
 " Reproach her not," interrupted Mr. St. John. " I will not 
 suffer a harsh word to her in my presence. For this step I 
 alone am to blame. Adeline was resolute in refusing to listen 
 or accede to it, and she never would have done so but for the
 
 FOILED! 2S7 
 
 countenance afforded to her in it by my family. Signor de 
 Castella, this is no moment for dehcacy : I therefore tell you 
 openly she shall be my wife. Our plans of to-night are 
 frustrated, and should Ave not be able to carry out any other 
 for her escape, Adeline must renounce at the altar the husband 
 you would thrust upon her." 
 
 " You are insolent, sir," said M. de Castella. 
 
 " Not insolent," he replied, " but determined." 
 
 There is no time to pursue the discussion. It was long and 
 stormy. Madame de Castella cried all the time, but old 
 Madame de Eeaufoy was a little inclined to favour St. John. 
 Not that she approved of the attempted escapade, but he was 
 so wondrous a favourite of hers, that she could not remain in 
 anger with him long, and she kept rapping her stick on the 
 floor at many things he said, to indicate approval, something 
 after the manner of a certain house of ours, w'hen it cries out 
 " Hear, hear ! " Adeline stood by Mr. St. John, shaking with 
 convulsive sobs, her white veil covering her face, the costly 
 cloak falling from her shoulders and sweeping the ground. 
 Her father suddenly turned to her. 
 
 "Adeline de Castella, are you determined to marry this 
 man ? " 
 
 "Speak out, Adeline," said Mr. St. John, for no answer came 
 from her. 
 
 "I — cannot — marry de la Chasse," she faltered. 
 
 " And you are determined to marry him — this Protestant 
 Englishman ? " 
 
 " If I may," she whispered, her sobs growing violent. 
 
 " To-morrow morning I will discuss with you this subject," 
 proceeded M. de Castella, still addressing his daughter. "At 
 the conclusion of our interview, you shall be free to choose 
 between — between the husband I marked out for you, and him 
 who now stands by your side." 
 
 "On your honour?" exclaimed Mr. St. John, surprised by 
 the remark. 
 
 " My word, sir, is valuable as yours," was the haughty r-eply. 
 " When my daughter shall have heard what I have to say, she 
 shall then be free to follow her own will. I will not further 
 influence her." 
 
 " You will permit me to receive her decision from her own 
 lips?" 
 
 " I tell you I will not further control her. She shall be as
 
 288 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 free to act as I am. And now, Mr. St. John, good night to 
 you." 
 
 " Would to Heaven I might remain and watch over you this 
 night !" he whispered, as he reluctantly released Adeline. "You 
 need all soothing consolation, and there are none to offer it. 
 Yet be comforted, my dear love, for if M. de Castella shall 
 keep his word, it is our last parting." 
 
 " He is a noble fellow, with all his faults," mentally ejacu- 
 lated Agnes de Beaufoy, as she watched Mr. St. John's receding 
 form. And "all his faults," what were they? That he would 
 have interfered in another's marriage contract, and stolen away 
 the bride, to make her his own. 
 
 "I did not think Adeline had it in her!" exclaimed Rose, 
 in a glow of delight, partly to the company, chiefly to herself 
 Rose had stood in a rapture of admiration the whole time. 
 Adeline and Mary could not cast old scores at her, now. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A CRISIS IN A LIFE. 
 
 The dreaded interview with M. de Castella was all but over, 
 and Adeline leaned against the straight-backed chair in the 
 cabinet, more dead than alive, so completely had her father's 
 words bereft her of hope and energy. 
 
 When Mr. St. John first opened the affair, Signor de Castella 
 had felt considerably annoyed, and would not glance at the 
 possibility of breaking the contract with de la Chasse. But the 
 Signor, cold as he was in manner, was not, at heart, indifferent 
 to Adeline's happiness. And when he found how entirely she 
 was bound up in Mr. St. John, and the latter brought forth his 
 munificent proposals and departed for England to get them 
 triumphantly confirmed, then he began in secret to waver. But 
 now stepped in another. 
 
 You, who read this, are of course aware that in many Roman 
 Catholic families, especially foreign ones, the confessor exercises 
 much influence over temporal matters as well as spiritual. And 
 though the confessor to the Castellas, Eather Marc, had not 
 hitherto seen cause, or perhaps had opportunity, to put himself 
 forward in such affairs, he felt himself bound to do so now. But
 
 A CRISIS IN A LII^E. 2§9 
 
 you must not jump to a mistaken conclusion, or fancy he was 
 one of those overbearing priests sometimes represented in works 
 of fiction. That there are meddlers in all positions of life — in 
 the Romish Church as well as in our Reformed one — every one 
 knows. But Fatlier Marc was not one of these. He was a good 
 and conscientious man, and though an over-rigid Romanist, it 
 was only in zeal for the Faith of his country, the religion to 
 which he had been born and reared. No other Faith, accord- 
 ing to his tenets, to his firm belief, would lead a soul to Heaven: 
 and he deemed that he was acting for the best, nay, for the 
 immortal interest of Adeline. Do not blame him ! He loved 
 the child, whom he had watched grow up from infancy. He 
 honestly believed that to suffer Adeline to marry an English- 
 man and a heretic and make her home in Protestant England, 
 would be to consign her to perdition. He therefore placed his 
 veto upon it, a veto that might not be gainsaid, and forbid the 
 contract to be interrupted with de la Chasse. If he interfered, 
 with what may appear to us desperate measures, he believed 
 the cause to be desperate which justified them ; and he acted 
 in accordance with the dictates of his own conscience ; with 
 what he deemed his duty to Adeline, to his religion, and to 
 God. 
 
 She knew it all now : the secret of her father's obstinacy, and 
 why she must give up Mr. St. John and marry de la Chasse. 
 She knew that if her father consented to her heretical marriage, 
 or if she of herself persisted in contracting it, the Curse of the 
 Church was to alight upon her, and upon her father's house. 
 The Curse of the Church ! Adeline had been reared in all the 
 belief and doctrines of the Romish faith, and she could no more 
 have dared to act in defiance of that awful curse, than she would 
 have dared to raise her hand against her own life. She leaned 
 her head back on the uncomfortable chair, and moaned aloud 
 in her overwhelming anguish. It might be cruel of Father 
 Marc to have whispered of such a thing, but he had done it 
 in his zealous love. Desperate diseases require desperate 
 remedies. 
 
 " The alternative of a convent," she gasped, " cannot that be 
 given me ? " 
 
 " No," replied M. de Castella, who was painfully frigid 
 throughout the interview, perhaps as a guard to his own feel- 
 ings. " You must marry. Your mother and I cannot consent 
 to lose you from our sight, as, in the will of Providence, we 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. !'>)
 
 290 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 lost Maria. You must choose between this Englishman and 
 him to whom you are betrothed. If you marry the EngUsh- 
 man, you — and I, Adehne — will be put beyond the pale of 
 Heaven. Marry him who expects, ere three days, to be your 
 husband, and you will lead a tranquil life here, with sure hope 
 of a Hereafter." 
 
 " Does my mother know of this ? " she asked. 
 
 " No. She will know it soon enough if your decision be 
 against us." 
 
 " Oh papa, papa ! " she burst forth, in momentary abandon- 
 ment to the feelings that seemed to be killing her, " can I not 
 live on with you and mamma always, unmarried ? " 
 
 " You cannot, Adeline. The only child that is left to us 
 must fulfil woman's appointed destiny on earth. And not 
 shrink from it," he sternly added. 
 
 There was little more to be said, nothing more to be under- 
 stood. She comprehended it all, and the situation she was 
 placed in. She knew that, for her, all of peace and joy on 
 earth was over. A mirror of the future flashed before her 
 mind's eye : she saw herself battling with its waves, and it was 
 one broad sea of never-ending agony. Her heart fluttered 
 violently, as it had never before fluttered : there was a strange 
 sensation within her, as of some mighty weight, some torment 
 rushing to her brain. She tottered as she rose from the chair, 
 and laid hold of the table to steady herself. " There — there is 
 nothing more ?" she whispered. 
 
 "Nothing, Adeline. Save to give your reply to Mr. St. 
 John." 
 
 She was passing to the door when a word arrested her. She 
 leaned against one of the secre'taires as her father spoke. 
 
 "I do not ask what your decision will be, Adeline. I have 
 laid the case before you, as it exists, without circumlocution and 
 without disguise. I said last night I would not bias your choice 
 by a word of mine, and I will not." 
 
 The words sounded in her ear very like a mockery, and wild 
 thoughts came across her, as she stood, of falling at her father's 
 feet, and beseeching him to have mercy. But she remembered 
 that mercy, for her, did not rest with him. 
 
 Signor de Castella became alarmed at her ghastly look. He 
 went forward and took her hands, speaking with more emotion 
 than he had ever betrayed. 
 
 " Adeline, may our holy Mother support you through this !
 
 A CRISIS IN A LIFE. 2^, 
 
 I hnve but your welfare at heart, and were your temporal 
 interests alone in question, I would not oppose your inclina- 
 tions. Child, I would give the half of my fortune, now, to 
 ensure your happiness here. But — when it comes to pass that 
 the interests of Eternity are at stake, no choice, as it seems to 
 me, is left us. The Church has you in its keeping, and must 
 be obeyed : I, at least, have no alternative : act, you, as you 
 please. I have said that I would not coerce you ; I do not. 
 If your decision be against us, you shall depart for England 
 to-day under the protection of your Aunt Agnes, who will 
 remain and see you married. Hush ! do not tell your decision 
 to me ; indeed, I am trying to keep my promise of leaving it 
 entirely to you. Make your choice, and then give it to Mr. St. 
 John." 
 
 He had released her as he was speaking. She was laying 
 her hand upon the door, when her father spoke again. She 
 turned towards him. 
 
 " There is one thing, Adeline. Whatever be your decision 
 you must not impart the nature of the impediment to Mr. St. 
 John." 
 
 " Not tell him the cause ! " she gasped — and the very words 
 spoke all too plainly of what the decision would be — "not tell 
 him ! •' 
 
 "Holy saints, no!" he rejoined, his voice rising between 
 surprise, anger, and emotion. " I had scarcely thought it 
 necessary to caution you. Not a word must be breathed. 
 Our Church permits not her modes of dealing to be revealed 
 to — to heretics." 
 
 He had made a pause at the last word, as if unwilling to 
 speak it. With all his coldness and his bigotry, he v/as an 
 essentially courteous man at heart. Adeline clasped her hands 
 in piteous beseeching, but he interrupted the prayer hovering 
 upon her lips. 
 
 "// must 7iot he, Adeline: Mr. St. John is not one of us. 
 Surely you are not growing disaffected ! " he continued, in a 
 sharp tone. " It has occurred to me at times that I may have 
 done wrong in allowing you to be so much here in your grand- 
 mother's home. When she married she quitted her Protestant 
 faith and embraced ours, but I doubt whether she has ever 
 been zealous in it at heart." 
 
 The tears shone in her eyes at the accusation, but she was 
 too miserable, too agitated to let them fall.
 
 2g2 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Only a hint to him, papa ! " she implored. " Permit it to 
 me in mercy. Only a hint ! " 
 
 " Not a hint ; not a word," he sternly rejoined. " I forbid 
 it. The Church forbids it. Promise this." 
 
 " I promise," she faintly said, yielding to the compulsion. 
 
 " Kiss the crucifix." 
 
 He took down the small, beautiful image of our Saviour, in 
 carved ivory, that was wont to hang over the mantelpiece, and 
 held it to her lips. She did as she was told, and so sealed the 
 secret. 
 
 There was nothing more. Adeline, a very ghost of despair, 
 quitted the cabinet. Outside she encountered Rose. 
 
 " What a long time you have been in there ! " was the young 
 lady's eager exclamation. " Your wedding-dress is come, with 
 lots more things, nearly a fourgon full, Louise says. They are 
 gone upstairs to inspect them, and I have been waiting for 
 you, all impatience. No reason why we should not admire 
 them, you know, though matters are cross. But — Adeline ! " 
 
 Adeline lifted her eyes at the sudden exclamation. 
 ■ " How ill you look ! " 
 
 "Is Mr. St. John in the drawing-room?" was the only 
 rejoinder. 
 
 "He has been there this half-hour. I left him there, 'all 
 alone in his glory,' for I could stay away from the view no 
 longer. I shall go upstairs without you, if you are not coming." 
 
 " I will follow you presently," she murmured. 
 
 "Adeline, let me into a secret. I won't tell. Will the 
 dress be worn for the purpose it was intended — de la Chasse's 
 wedding ? " 
 
 " Yes," she feebly answered, passing on to the west drawing- 
 room. 
 
 Rose arrested her impatient steps, and gazed after her. 
 
 "Whatever is the matter? How strangely ill she looks! 
 And she says the marriage is to come off with de la Chasse 1 
 I wonder whether that's gospel : or nothing but a blind ? 
 When the wedding-morning comes, we may find Jock o' 
 Hazeldean enacted in real life. It would be glorious fun !" 
 
 Mr. St. John was pacing the room when Adeline went in. 
 He met her with a sunny smile, and would have held her to 
 him. But Adeline de Castella was possessed of extreme 
 rectitude of feeling : and she now knew that in two days' time 
 she should be the wife of the Baron de la Chasse, Alas 1 in
 
 A CRISIS IN A LIFE. 293 
 
 spite of the fears that sometimes assailed her, she had, from 
 the beginning, too surely counted on becoming the wife of 
 Mr. St. John. She evaded him, and walked forward, panting 
 for breath. 
 
 He was alarmed as he gazed upon her. He saw the agitation 
 she was in ; the fearful aspect of her features, which still wore 
 the ghastly hue they had assumed in the cabinet. He took 
 one of her hands within his, but even that she withdrew. 
 " In the name of Heaven, Adeline, what is this ? " 
 She essayed to answer him, and could not. The palpitation 
 in her throat impeded her utterance. The oppression on her 
 breath increased. 
 
 "Adeline ! have you no pity for my suspense?" 
 "I— I — am trying to tell you," she gasped out, with a jerk 
 between most of her words. "I am going — to— marry him— 
 de la Chasse." 
 
 He looked at her for some moments without speaking. 
 "You have been ill, Adeline," he said at length._ "I saw last 
 night the state you were in, and would have given much to 
 remain by you." 
 
 " I am not wandering," she answered, detecting the bent of 
 his thoughts. " I am telling you truth. I must marry him." 
 
 " Adeline — if you are indeed in full possession of your senses 
 —explain what you would say. I do not understand." 
 
 "It is easy enough to be understood," she replied, leaning 
 ngainst the side of the large window for support. " On Satur- 
 day, their fixed wedding-day, I shall marry him." 
 
 " Oh, this is shameful ! this is dreadful ! " he exclaimed. 
 " How can they have tampered with you like this?" 
 
 " They have not tampered with me, Frederick. I decide of 
 my own will." 
 
 " It is disgraceful ! disgraceful ! " he uttered. " Where is 
 Signor de Castella ? I will tell him what I think of his conduct. 
 He talk of honour ! " 
 
 She placed her hand upon his arm to detain him, for he was 
 turning from the room. " He can tell you nothing," she said. 
 " He does not yet know my decision. Do not blame him." 
 
 " He said last night that you should be free to choose," 
 impatiently returned Mr. St. John. 
 
 "And I am free. He — laid" — (she hardly knew how to 
 frame her words and yet respect her oath) — "he laid the case 
 fully before me, and left me to decide for myself. Had \
 
 294 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 chosen you, he said my Aunt Agnes should accompany us 
 to-day to England, and see me married. But — I — dared not 
 — I" — (she burst into a flood of most distressing tears)— " I 
 must marry de la Chasse." 
 
 " Explain, explain." He was getting hot and angry. 
 
 " I have nothing to explain. Only that my father left it to 
 me, and that I must marry him : and that my heart will break." 
 
 When he perfectly understood her, understood that there was 
 no hope, the burst of reproach that came from him was terrible. 
 Yet might it not be excused ? He had parted from her on the 
 previous night in the full expectation that she v/ould be his 
 wife : now could he think otherwise after all that had occurred, 
 and the concluding promise of M. de Castella? Yet now, 
 without preface, without reason, she told him that she re- 
 nounced him for his rival. A reason, unhappily, she dared 
 not give. 
 
 Oh, once more, in spite of her resistance, Mr, St. John held 
 her to his heart. He spoke to her words of the sweetest and 
 most persuasive eloquence ; he besought her to fly with him, 
 to become his beloved wife. And she was obliged to wrest 
 herself from him, and assure him that his prayers were wasted ; 
 that she was compelled to be more obdurate than even her 
 father had been. 
 
 It was a fault, you know, of Mn St. John's to be hasty and 
 passionate, when moved to it by any great cause ; but perhaps 
 a storm of passion so violent as that he gave way to now, had 
 "^ever yet shaken him. His reproaches were keen : entirely 
 ui-.csasonable : but an angry man does not weigh his words. 
 
 " False and fickle that you are, you have never loved me ! 
 I see it all now. You have but led me on, to increase at the 
 last moment the triumph of de la Chasse. It may have been 
 a planned thing between you ! Your true vows have been 
 i^iven to him, your false ones to me." 
 
 Adeline placed her hands on his, as if imploring mercy, 
 and would have knelt before him ; but he held her up, not 
 tenderly. 
 
 " If I thought you did not know your words are untrue, it 
 vrould kill me," she faltered. "Had we been married, as, 
 until this day, I thought and prayed we should be, you would 
 have known how entirely I love you ; how the love will endure 
 unto death. I can tell you this, now, because we are about to 
 separate, and it is the last time we must ever be together in
 
 A CRISIS IN A LIFE. 295 
 
 this world. Oh, Frederick ! mercy ! mercy ! — do not profess 
 to think I have loved another." 
 
 " You are about to marry him." 
 
 " I shall marry him, hating /u'm ; I shall marry him, loving 
 you : do you not think I have enough of misery ? " 
 
 " As I am a living man," spoke Mr. St. John, " I cannot 
 understand this ! You say your father told you to choose 
 between us ? " 
 
 " I feel as if I should die," she murmured ; " I have felt so, 
 at times, for several weeks past. There is something hanging 
 over me, I think," she continued, passing her hand across her 
 forehead, abstractedly. 
 
 " Adeline," he impatiently repeated, " are you deceiving me ? 
 D/d your father give you free liberty to choose between us ? " 
 
 " Yes ; he gave it me — after placing the whole case before 
 me," she was obliged to answer. 
 
 " And you tell me that you have deliberately chosen de la 
 Chasse ? You give me no explanation ; but cast me off like 
 this?" 
 
 " I dare not give it. That is " — striving to soften the words 
 that were wrung from her — " I have no explanation to give. 
 Oh, Frederick, dearest Frederick — let me call you so in your 
 presence, for the first and last and only time — do not reproach 
 me? Indeed, I must marry him." 
 
 " Of your own free deliberation, you will, on Saturday next, 
 walk to the altar and become his wife ? " he reiterated. " Do 
 you mean to tell me that? " 
 
 She made a gesture in the affirmative, her sobs rising hyste- 
 rically. What with her confused state of feeling, and the 
 anxiety she was under to preserve inviolate the obligation so 
 solemnly undertaken, she was perhaps even less explanatory 
 than she might have been. But who, in these moments of 
 agitation, can act precisely as he ought ? 
 
 " Fie upon you ! fie upon you ! " he cried, contemptuously. 
 " You boast of loving ! you may well do so, when you had two 
 lovers to practise upon. I understand it all, now ; your objec- 
 tion to my speaking, until the last moment, to M, de Castella ; 
 you would keep us both in your train, forsooth, incense to 
 your vanity ! You have but fooled me by pretending to listen 
 to my love ; you have led me on, and played with me, a slave 
 to be sacrificed on /lis shtine ! I give you up to him joyfully. 
 I am well quit of you.
 
 296 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Mercy ! mercy ! " she implored, shrinking do^Yn, and 
 clasping her hands together. 
 
 " Fool that I was to be so deceived ! Light and fickle that 
 you are, you are not worthy to be enshrined in an honourable 
 man's heart. I will thrust your image from mine, until not a 
 trace, not a recollection of it, is left. I thank God it will be no 
 impossible task. The spell that bound me to you is broken. 
 Deceitful, worthless girl, thus to have betrayed your false- 
 heartedness at the last : but better for me to have discovered 
 it before marriage than after. I thank you for this, basely 
 treated as I have been." 
 
 vShe made an effort to interrupt him, a weak, broken-hearted 
 effort ; but his fierce torrent of speech overpowered it. 
 
 "I go now; and, in leaving this place, shall leave its 
 memories behind. / will never willingly t/iink of you again in 
 life. Contemptuously as you have cast off me, so will I 
 endeavour in my heart to cast off you, and all remembrance 
 of you. I wish you good-bye, for ever. And I hope, for de la 
 Chasse's sake, your conduct to him, as a wife, may be different 
 from what it has been to me." 
 
 There was a strange, overwhelming agony, both of body and 
 mind, at work within her, such as she had never experienced 
 or dreamt of; a chaos of confused ideas, the most painful of 
 which was the conviction that he was leaving her for ever in 
 contempt and scorn. A wild desire to detain him ; to convince 
 him that at least she was not the false-hearted being he had 
 painted her; to hear some kinder words from his lips, and 
 those recalled, crowded to her brain, mixing itself up with the 
 confusion and despair already there. 
 
 With his mocking farewell he had hastened from the room 
 by way of the colonnade ; it was the nearest way to the path 
 leading to his home, and he was in no mood to stand upon 
 ceremony. Adeline went after him, but his strides were quick, 
 and she did not gain upon his steps. She called aloud to him, 
 in her flood-tide of despair. 
 
 He turned and saw her, flying down the steps after him. One 
 repellent, haughty gesture alone escaped him, and he quickened 
 his pace onwards. She saw the movement of contempt ; but 
 she still pressed on, and got half-way across the lawn. There 
 she sank upon the grass, at first in a kneeling posture, her arms 
 outstretched towards him, as if they could bring him back, and 
 a sharp, wailing cry of anguish escaping from her lips.
 
 A CRISIS IN A LIFE. 297 
 
 Why did he not look round ? There was just time for it, 
 ere he was hidden in the dark, shrubbery : he would have seen 
 enough to drive away his storm of anger. But waxing stronger 
 in his wrath, he strode on, without deigning to cast another 
 glance behind. 
 
 They were in the chamber over the western drawing-room, 
 examining the things just arrived from Paris. Rose happened 
 to be at the window, and saw Adeline fall. Uttering an 
 exclamation, which caused Mary Carr also to look, she turned 
 from it, and ran down to her. Mary followed, but her pace 
 was slow, for she suspected nothing amiss, and thought Adeline 
 had but stooped to look at something on the grass. ^Vhen 
 Mary reached the colonnade. Rose was up with Adeline, and 
 seemed to be raising her head. 
 
 What was it? Miss Carr strained her eyes in a sort of 
 bewildered wonder. Of their two dresses, the one was white, 
 the other a delicate lilac muslin, and strange spots appeared 
 on each of them, spots of a fresh bright crimson colour, that 
 glowed in the sun. Were they spots of — blood 1 And — was 
 Adeline's mouth stained with it ? Mary turned sick as the 
 truth flashed upon her. Adeline must have broken a blood- 
 vessel. 
 
 Terrified, confused, for once Mary Carr lost her habitual 
 presence of mind. She not only rang the bell violently, but 
 she shrieked aloud, crying still as she hastened to the lawn. 
 The servants came running out, and then the family. 
 
 Rose was kneeling on the grass, pale with terror, supporting 
 Adeline's head on her bosom. Rose's hair, the ends of her 
 long golden ringlets, were touched with the crimson, her hands 
 
 marked with it ; and Adeline Madame de Castella fell 
 
 down in a fainting-fit. 
 
 Yes, she had broken a blood-vessel. The anguish, the 
 emotion, too great to bear had suddenly snapped asunder one 
 of those little tenures of life. Ah ! the truth flashed upon more 
 than one of those standing around her in their consternation — 
 those frail lungs had but been patched up for a short time ; not 
 healed. 
 
 They bore her round, gently as migh't be, from the lawn into 
 the yellow drawing-room, avoiding the steps of the colonnade, 
 not daring to carry her up to the bed-chambers, and laid her 
 on the costly, though somewhat old-fashioned and large sofa. 
 What a sight she looked ! the white face, the closed eyes, tell-
 
 298 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 ing scarcely of life, and the red stains contrasting with the 
 amber-velvet pillows. A groom went riding off to Odesque at 
 full gallop — that is, as much of a gallop as French by-roads 
 will allow — to bring back the Odesque doctor, the nearest 
 medical man. He was also charged to send a telegraphic 
 message to Belport for the French gentleman who had attended 
 her in the spring ; and he was requested to bring with him an 
 English physician. 
 
 ' How prone are we to cheat ourselves ! that is, to try to cheat 
 ourselves. Signor de Castella, the first shock past, affected to 
 talk cheerfully — cheerfully for him — of its being only a little 
 vessel that had given way on the chest, not the lungs. Adeline 
 lay on the sofa, passive. She was quite conscious, fully awake 
 to all that was passing around her ; as might be saen by the 
 occasional opening of the eyes. Madame de Castella, really 
 ill, as these impressionable natures are apt to be, was in her 
 room, falling from one fainting-fit into another. Madame de 
 Beaufoy sat Avith her ; and the Signor, a most devoted husband, 
 made repeated pilgrimages to the chamber. The poor old lady 
 had taken one look at Adeline, and been led away by her 
 maid, wTinging her hands in shuddering dismay. So that in 
 point of fact the yellow drawing-room was left very much to 
 the two sympathizing, but terrified young ladies, the upper 
 women-servants, and Aunt Agnes. As she lay there, poor 
 child, the angry indignation cast upon her ever since the 
 previous night calmed down. Better perhaps that they had 
 let her go to her runaway wedding. It would not have much 
 mattered either way : a loving bride, or a disappointed, un- 
 happy girl, life for her could not last very long. How far the 
 sense of shame, so ripe in her mind for the last few hours, had 
 contributed its quota to the attack, will never be known. The 
 most indignant of them all had been Agnes de Beaufoy ; and 
 she could not quite recover it yet. 
 
 Adeline turned her head as Rose was passing near her. 
 " Am I dying? " she asked. 
 
 " Oh, Adeline, you must not speak ! " was Rose's startled 
 rejoinder, " The doctor will be here soon. Dying ! of course 
 you are not." 
 
 " Where's papa ? " 
 
 "/V^^ don't attempt to speak! He was here a minute or 
 two ago : he will be here again." 
 
 " Rose," came the soft whisper, in spite of the injunction.
 
 A CRISIS IN A LIFE, -99 
 
 "I think I am dying. I should like to see Frederick St. John. 
 Only for a minute, tell him," 
 
 Rose, consulting no one, penned a hasty note to Mr. St. John, 
 her tears dropping all the time : she also thought death was at 
 hand. It was written in her own rather wild fashion, but was 
 clear and peremptory. Louise was called out of the yellow 
 drawing-room and despatched with it. And the time passed 
 slowly on. 
 
 The most perfect quiet, both of mind and body, was essential 
 for Adeline ; yet there she lay, evidently anxious, inwardly rest- 
 less, her eyes seeking the door, expecting the appearance of 
 Mr. St. John. But he did not come; neither did Louise. 
 Had Rose done well to pen that note ? Adeline was exhausted 
 and silent, but not the less excited. 
 
 . In came Louise at last, looking, as usual, fiery hot, her black 
 eyes round and sparkling. Her proper course would have been 
 to call Rose from the room ; but she stalked direct into the 
 presence of Adeline, bringing her news. It happened that 
 none of the elders were in the room at the moment : Signer de 
 Castella had again gone to his wife's chamber ; and Miss de 
 Beaufoy was outside the large entrance-door, lookmg in her 
 impatience for signs of the doctor from Odesque. Louise had 
 made haste to Madame Baret's and back, as desired, and came 
 in at once, without waiting even to remove her gloves, the only 
 addition (except the parapluie rouge) necessary to render her 
 home-costume a walking one. What would an English lady's- 
 maid say to that ? In her hand she bore a packet, or very 
 thick letter, for Adeline, directed and sealed by J\Ir. St. John. 
 Adeline followed it with her eyes, as Rose took it from Louise. 
 
 " Shall I open it ?" whispered Rose, bending gently over her. 
 
 Adeline looked assent, and Rose broke the seal, holding it 
 immediately before her face. It was a blank sheet of paper, 
 without word or comment, enclosing the letters she had written 
 to him. They fell in a heap upon her, as she lay. Rose, at 
 home in such matters, understood it as soon as Adeline, and 
 turned with a frown to Louise. 
 
 " Did Mr. St. John give you this ?" 
 
 "Ah, no, mademoiselle. Mr. St, John is gone." 
 
 "Gone!" 
 
 " Gone away to England. Gone for good." 
 
 Rose gathered the letters into the sheet of paper, as if in 
 abstraction, amusing herself by endeavouring to put together
 
 300 ST. MARTIN'S, EVE. 
 
 the large seal she had broken. Truth was, she did not know 
 what to say or do. Adeline's eyes were closed, but she heard 
 — by the heaving bosom and crimsoned cheeks, contrasting 
 with their previous ghastly paleness. Louise, like a simpleton, 
 continued in an undertone to Rose, and there was no one by 
 to check her gossip. 
 
 " He had not been gone three minutes when I got there 
 
 Oh, by the way, mademoiselle, here's the note you gave me for 
 him. Madame Baret was changing her cap to bring up the 
 thick letter, for Mr. St. John had said it was to be taken special 
 care of, and given into Mademoiselle Adeline's own hands, so 
 she thought she would bring it herself. She's in a fine way at 
 his going, is mother Baret, for she says she never saw any one 
 that she liked so much." 
 
 " But what took him off in this sudden manner ? " demanded 
 Rose, forgetful of Adeline in her own eager curiosity. 
 
 "Madame Baret says she'd give her two ears to know," re- 
 sponded Louise. "She thought something must have happened 
 up here — a dispute, or some unpleasant matter of that sort. 
 But I told her. No. Something had occurred here unfor- 
 tunately, sure enough, but it could have had nothing to do with 
 Mr. St. John, because he had left the chateau previously. She 
 then thought he might have received ill news from England ; 
 though no letters came for him in the morning. But whatever 
 it might be, he was in an awful passion. He has spoilt the 
 picture." 
 
 " Which picture ? " quickly asked Rose. 
 
 Before recording the answer, it may be well to explain that 
 Adeline's portrait had been finished long ago, and taken to the 
 chateau. But on the return of M. de Castella from Paris, he 
 had suggested some alteration in the back-ground and in the 
 drapery, so it was sent back to the Lodge. Events had then 
 crowded so fast, one upon another, coupled with Mr. St. John's 
 two visits to England, that the change was not at once effected. 
 During the last few days, however, St. John had been at work, 
 and completed it. Only the previous evening, when he was 
 secretly expecting to leave with Adeline, he had given orders 
 that it should be conveyed the next day to Beaufoy. 
 
 " Which picture ?" was the impatient demand of Rose. 
 
 "Mademoiselle's likeness that he had been taking himself," 
 answered Louise. " He went into the painting-room after he 
 got home just now, and began flinging his things together,
 
 A CRISIS IN A LIFt. 3ci 
 
 Madame Baret heard sounds and went to look who was tliere ; 
 but she only peeped in at the door, for she had not changed 
 her night-cap, and there she saw him. There was some blue 
 paint on a palette at hand, and he dabbed a wet brush in it 
 and smeared it right across the face. My faith ! tlTe way he 
 must have been in, to destroy his own work. And such a 
 beautiful face as he had made it ! " 
 
 A pause. Rose, in her astonishment, could only stare. Slie 
 knew nothing, be it remembered, of the breach between liim 
 and Adeline. No one did know of it. 
 
 " I knew he could be furiously passionate on occasions," was 
 her first remark. " I told him so one day." 
 
 " It was a shame, INIadame Baret said in telling me, to vent 
 his anger upon that,'' resumed Louise. " So senseless : and quite 
 like an insult to Mademoiselle Adeline — just as if she had 
 offended him. Of course I agreed with the Mere Baret that 
 it was a shame, a wicked shame : and then, if you'll believe me, 
 mademoiselle, she flew out at me for saying it, and vowed that 
 nobody should speak a word against Mr. St. John in her hear- 
 ing. He was of a perfectly golden temper, she went on, he 
 always behaved like a prince to everybody, and she was sure 
 something out of common must have occurred to shake him, 
 for he seemed to be quite beside Mmself — to know no more 
 what he was doing than a child." 
 
 Rose glanced at Adeline, whom, perhaps, she suddenly 
 remembered. The crimson had faded on the wan cheeks ; the 
 quivering eyes were closed. What effort might it be costing 
 her, let us wonder, to lie there and make no sign ? 
 
 " I am sure / don't want to speak against him," continued 
 Louise, in an injured tone, meant as a reproach for the absent 
 mistress of the Lodge. " I only chimed in with the Dame 
 Baret for politeness' sake — and what had taken her, to be so 
 capricious, I can't think : one mood one minute, another the 
 next. Mr. St. John was a thorough gentleman, always behaving 
 like one to us servants : and you know, besides, Mademoiselle 
 Rose, he spoke French like a true angel." 
 
 "Comma un vrai ange," were the maid's words. It may be 
 as well to give them. Rose nodded. 
 
 "Which is what can't be said of most Englishmen," added 
 Louise. 
 
 " But what has he gone away for so suddenly ? " questioned 
 Rose.
 
 302 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Nobody knows, mademoiselle. As he was going in, he 
 met Victor — that lazy fellow Pere Baret keeps about the place ; 
 /wouldn't — and ordered a horse to be got ready for him and 
 brought round. Then he went into the painting-room, where 
 Madame peeped in and saw him, but didn't show herself on 
 account of her cap. He was in there ever so long, and then 
 he went up to his chamber. By the time he came out his 
 anger was over, and he was never more calm or pleasant than 
 when he called to Dame Baret and gave her the packet for 
 Mademoiselle Adeline, asking her to oblige him by bringing it 
 up herself. Then he told her he was going to leave. She says 
 you might have knocked her down with a whiff of old Baret's 
 pipe. And I don't wonder at it ; what with the unexpected 
 news, and what with the consciousness of her cap, which she 
 hadn't had time to change. It's not once in six months that 
 Madame Baret's coiffure is amiss, but they have the sweeps 
 to-day." 
 
 " Let her cap and the sweeps alone," cried Rose, impatiently. 
 " I wish you'd go on properly, Louise." 
 
 "Well, mademoiselle, when Dame Baret had recovered the 
 shock a little, she asked him whether he was going away for 
 long, and when he should be back. He told her he should 
 never come back ; never ; but would write and explain to M. 
 d'Estival. He thanked her for all her attention, and said she 
 and M. Baret should hear from him. With that he rode off; 
 giving orders that his clothes and other things should be packed 
 and sent after him, and leaving a mint of money for all who had 
 waited on him." 
 ; " And where is he gone?" questioned Rose. " To England?" 
 
 " Mother Baret supposes so, mademoiselle. It's where his 
 things are to be sent, at any rate. He is riding to Odesque 
 now, so he must be going to take the train either for Paris or 
 the coast." 
 
 It is impossible to say how much more Louise would have 
 found to relate, and Rose to listen to, but the clattering hoofs 
 of a horse were heard outside, and Louise hastened to the 
 window, hoping it might be the surgeon from Odesque. 
 Hazardous, perhaps, it had been for Adeline to listen to this : 
 and yet well. As he /lad gone, it was better that she should 
 know it ; and be, so far, at rest. 
 
 The surgeon from Odesque it proved to be. Ah ! how 
 strangely do things fall out in this world ! When the two
 
 A CRISIS IN A LIFE. 303 
 
 horsemen had met in the road some half-hour before, each of 
 them spurring his steed to its fleetest pace, and had exchanged 
 a passing salutation of courtesy, how little was Mr. St. John 
 conscious that the surgeon was speeding to her whom lie had 
 quitted in anger, against whom he was even then boiling over 
 with resentment ; speeding to her in her sore need, as she lay 
 a-dying ! 
 
 Not dying quite immediately ; not that day, perhaps not for 
 some short weeks ; but still dying. Such was the fiat of the 
 surgeon, as whispered to Miss de Beaufoy ; from whom it 
 spread to the awe-struck household. Some of them refused 
 to receive it : M. de Castella for one ; Rose for another. 
 Well, the doctor answered, it Avas his fatal opinion ; but no 
 one would be more thankful than he to find it a mistaken one; 
 and he was truly glad that other medical men were telegraphed 
 for ; he felt his responsibility. 
 
 He assisted to carry Adeline upstairs to her chamber. Very 
 gently was she borne to it : and Rose carried the packet up 
 after her, and put it away safely in the sight of Adeline. Of 
 course the chief thing was to keep her perfectly quiet, mentally 
 and bodily, the doctor said. If further hemorrhage could be 
 prevented and the wound healed, she might — might go on. 
 He spoke the words in a hesitating manner, as if himself 
 doubting it : and Rose, who had stolen into the conference, 
 which was taking place downstairs, said afterwards she should 
 have liked to gag him. 
 
 Late in the evening, arrived the two doctors from Belport, 
 le Docteur Dorre and an English physician. They were more 
 reticent than the surgeon of Odesque had been, not saying that 
 Adeline was in any sort of danger ; not thinking it, so far as 
 could be seen. The Englishman was old, the Frenchman 
 comparatively young. Adeline was considerably better then, 
 to all appearance : perhaps they did not really detect cause 
 for alarm. She lay quite tranquil, smiled at them, and talked 
 a little ; neither did she look very ill, except that she was pale ; 
 and all traces of the sudden malady had been removed. In- 
 deed the wild commotion of the morning had given place to a 
 very different state of things. All was tranquil ; and Madame 
 de Castella was about again, and cheerful. 
 
 After the doctors had seen Adeline, they retired to a room 
 alone, emerging from it after a few minutes' consultation. The 
 chief thing, as the other one had said, was to keep her still and
 
 3o4 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 quiet ; no talking, no excitement. One person alone must be 
 in the room with her at a time ; and that, as they strongly- 
 recommended, should be a sick-nurse. Madame de Castella 
 assented eagerly, hanging, as it were, upon the very words that 
 issued from their lips. Dr. Dorre spoke of the Englishwoman 
 who had attended her in the spring : she had struck him as 
 being one of the best and most efficient nurses he had ever in 
 his life seen. 
 
 " I'll inquire after her the first thing to-morrow morning," 
 said the young doctor ; " I think I know her address : and I'll 
 send her over." 
 
 They were to be over themselves also on the morrow, to meet 
 the doctor from Odesque ; for ///i?/V- visits could not be frequent. 
 Belport was too far off to allow of their coming daily. 
 
 " See after Nurse Brayford ! " exclaimed Rose, when this item 
 of intelligence reached her ears after the doctors had departed. 
 " It will be of no use, dear Madame de Castella. She went 
 away with my sister, Mrs. Carleton St. John. They are travel- 
 ling somewhere in Germany. Did I not tell you Charlotte had 
 taken her ? " 
 
 "But has she kept her all this time? The nurse may have 
 returned." 
 
 " She w^ri'," replied Rose, speaking slowly in her deliberation. 
 " I don't think she has, though. The last time I heard from 
 London, from mamma, she said she feared dear Charlotte was 
 being tried sadly, for that she never could get a letter from her 
 now. Charlotte was always first and foremost with mamma, 
 the rest of us nothing. It's more than she was with me, 
 though," added Rose, lifting her nose in the air as she shook 
 back her golden ringlets. " A domineering thing ! " 
 
 " If the little child has got better, the nurse may have been 
 dismissed," observed Madame de Castella, who now remem- 
 bered to have heard the circumstances under which Nurse 
 Brayford had been taken. 
 
 " But I fear he has not got better," answered Rose. " I 
 fear he is getting worse. Mary Anne said so when she wrote 
 to me. About the nurse we shall see : I hope, for Adeline's 
 sake, she is back again." 
 
 It should have been mentioned that Signer de Castella had 
 sent an express to the Baron de la Chasse, to arrest his journey 
 to Beaufoy. But he came, nevertheless : much concerned, of 
 course. He sav/ Adeline for a few minutes in the presence
 
 THE SICK CHAMBER. 305 
 
 of her mother and aunt. It was on the very day they were 
 to have been married. He was excessively shocked at her 
 death-hke appearance — to which there's not the least doubt 
 the sight of himself contributed— but endeavoured to express 
 many a kind hope of her speedy recovery, hinting that he was 
 an interested party in it. 
 
 " She is very ill ! " he exclaimed to Rose, when they met 
 downstairs, before his departure. 
 
 "Very," lamented Rose. "And to think those beautiful 
 wedding things, that were to have been worn to-day, are shut 
 up out of sight in drawers and boxes ! " 
 
 " Where's that presuming Anglais ? " asked the Frenchman. 
 
 " Oh, he's gone back to his own country," replied Rose, care- 
 lessly. " Ages ago, it seem now. I don't think you and he 
 need have quarrelled over her, Monsieur le Baron." 
 
 He detected her meaning — that Adeline would not live to 
 belong to either — and he bent his head in sorrow, and stroked 
 his silky yellow moustache, and began to speak in a feeling, 
 thoughtful manner of her illness ; of the mischief of the spring 
 which had broken out again, when they had all deemed it 
 cured. He had no idea, and never could have any, that this 
 had been brought on by the misery and emotion that were too 
 great to bear. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Brayford had been sought for in vain. She 
 was still absent from Belport, in attendance on the little heir 
 of Alnwick. A French nurse came to Beaufoy to occupy her 
 place. A tall, thin, dark-eyed, quick woman, dressed in black ; 
 kind enough, and very capable ; but with a gossiping tongue 
 that rivalled at least that of Louise. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE SICK CHAMBER. 
 
 "Draw aside the curtain, Rose," said Adeline de Castclla, 
 feebly. " The sun has passed." 
 
 You can take a look at her as she lies. Some i^w weeks 
 have passed since the sad occurence just related, but there is 
 no visible improvement in her appearance. Her face is wan, 
 thinner than it was then, and dark circles have formed round 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. 20
 
 3o6 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 her eyes. There had been no recurrence of the alarming 
 symptoms from the lungs : indeed, the hurt seemed to have 
 healed itself immediately ; but a great deal of fever had super- 
 vened, and this had left her in a sad state of weakness. The 
 doctors seemed a little puzzled at this condition of fever and 
 its continuance ; some of those around her were not, but knew 
 it for the result of her unhappy state of mind. That con- 
 sumption had set its seal upon her, there was no longer any 
 doubt, but it was thought probable the disease might linger in 
 its progress. 
 
 Rose and Mary were with her still. Adeline could not bear 
 to hear of their leaving. "They must spare you to me until 
 the end," she said, alluding to their friends, and the young 
 ladies seemed quite wilUiig to accept the position. They were 
 her chief companions ] the French nurse remained, but her 
 office was partly a sinecure, and just now she was occupied with 
 Madame de Beaufoy, who was confined to her bed with ill- 
 ness. Signor de Castella was in Paris on business — -he always 
 seemed to have business on hand, but no one could ever quite 
 find out what it was. Agnes de Beaufoy sat much with her 
 mother. Madame de Castella was almost as ill as Adeline ; 
 grieving, fretting, repining continually. She paid frequent 
 visits to Adeline's room, but seldom stayed in it long, for she 
 was apt to suffer her feelings to get ahead, and to become 
 hysterical. A frequent visitor to it was Father Marc; the 
 most cheerful, chatty, pleasant of all. He brought her no end 
 of entertaining anecdotes of the neighbourhood, and sometimes 
 succeeded in winning a smile from her lips. He never entered 
 v/ith her upon religious topics, so far as the two young ladies 
 saw or heard; never appeared to anticipate that the end of 
 life's race was entered upon. Rose had put aside much of her 
 giddy vanity, and they all loved her. She was in bitter re- 
 pentance for her unnecessary and exaggerated revelations 
 touching Sarah Beauclerc ; — there, in her knowledge of that, 
 lay the keenest sting of Adeline's misery. Adeline remained 
 silent as to her inward life, silent as the grave ; but something 
 had been gathered of it. She had more than once fallen into 
 a sort of delirium — I don't know any better name for it ; partly 
 sleep; partly a talking and waking dream, and some painful 
 thoughts had been spoken in it. It always occurred at the 
 dusk of evening, and Adeline herself seemed unconscious of it 
 when she woke up to reality. You may meet with such a casQ
 
 THE SICK CHAMBER. 307 
 
 yourselves ; when you do, suspect the patient's state of alarm- 
 ing bodily weakness. 
 
 Adeline's former chamber had been changed for one with 
 a southern aspect. " The bed was in a recess, as is customary 
 in the country, or rather in a smaller room, for there were 
 windows and two doors in it. A large cheerful chamber, or 
 sitting-room, the chief, the windows lofty, the fire-place hand- 
 some, the little Turkey-carpet mats, scattered on the polished 
 floor, of bright colours. Adeline's sofa just now faced the 
 windows ; it was light, and could be turned easily any way on 
 its firm castors ; Madame de Castella leaned back in an easy- 
 chair, nearly as pale and worn as Adeline; JNIary Carr was 
 working ; Rose listlessly turned over the leaves of one of the 
 pretty books lying on the large round table. 
 
 " Draw aside the curtain, Rose," Adeline said. " The sun 
 has passed." 
 
 Rose drew it aside. An hour or so before, the weak, watery 
 sun had come forth from behind the lowering grey clouds and 
 sent his beams straight into Adeline's eyes, so they had shut 
 him out. Diminished in force though the rays were, they were 
 yet too bright for the invalid's sight. Surely, when you come 
 to think of it, there was a singular affinity between the weather 
 and Adeline's health and happiness. Cold, wet, boisterous, 
 and gloomy had it been in the spring, during the time of her 
 long illness, up to the period, within a few days, of her arrival 
 at Beaufoy and commencing intimacy with Frederick St. John ; 
 warm, brilliant and beautiful it was all through the months of 
 that intimacy ; but with its abrupt termination, the very day 
 subsequent to the miserable one of his departure and of 
 Adeline's dangerous accident, it had abruptly changed, and 
 become cold, wet, dreary again, ^^'eeks, as you have heard, 
 had elapsed since, and the weather still wore the same gloomy 
 aspect, in which there seemed no prospect of amendment ou 
 this side winter. A feeling of awe, almost of superstition, 
 would creep over Mary Carr, as she sat by Adeline's bedside 
 in the dim evenings, listening to the moaning, sighing wind, 
 as it swept round the unprotected chateau and shook off the 
 leaves from the nearly bare trees on the western side. It 
 sounded so like a dirge for the dying girl who was passing from 
 them ! The watchers would look up with a shiver, and say 
 how dreary it was, this gloomy weather, and wish it would 
 change, forgetting that the sweetest summer's day, the brightest
 
 3oS ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 skies, cannot bring joy to a house where joy exists not, or 
 renew the peace of a heart from which hope has flown. Very 
 fanciful all this, no doubt, you will say ; what has the weather 
 to do with events in this busy world of ours? Nothing, of 
 course. Still, it had been a curious year ; winter, summer, and 
 now winter again ; but neither spring nor autumn. 
 
 As Rose drew aside the curtain, humming a scrap of a song 
 at the same time, for she was always gay, and nothing could 
 take it out of her, Adeline left the sofa where she had been 
 lying, and sat down near the fire in any easy-chair of white 
 dimity. 
 
 " Mamma," she said, catching sight of Madame de Castella's 
 lifeless, sickly aspect, " why do you not go out? It is not rain- 
 ing to-day, and the fresh air would do you good." 
 
 " Oh, Adeline," sighed the unhappy mother, " nothing will 
 do me good while I see you as you are." 
 
 " Now, Madame de Castella ! " remonstrated Rose. " You 
 persist in taking a wrong view of things ! Adeline is getting 
 better and stronger every da^\" 
 
 True, in a degree. But would it last ? Perhaps Rose her- 
 self, in her inmost heart, knew that it would not. Madame de 
 Castella rose abruptly, and quitted the room ; and Rose gave 
 a shrug to her pretty shoulders. There were times, as she 
 privately confided to Mary Carr, when she could have shaken 
 Madame for her line of conduct. She vented her anger just 
 now on the pillow behind Adeline's back, knocking it unmerci- 
 fully, under the plea of smoothing it to comfort. 
 
 " I'm putting it straight for you, Adeline." 
 
 " No matter, dear Rose. It will do very well. Thank you 
 all the same." 
 
 "■ I wish you'd taste this jelly ; it's delicious." 
 
 " But I don't care for it ; I don't care to eat," was the apa- 
 thetic reply. 
 
 " Shall I read to you ? " asked Rose. 
 
 "As you will, dear Rose; it seems all one to me. But 
 thank you very much." 
 
 Thus had she been all along ; thus she continued. Quiet, 
 passive, grateful for their cares, but showing no interest in any 
 earthly thing. No tidings whatever had been heard of Mr. St. 
 John since he left ; what quarter of the known world he might 
 be in, whether or not he was aware of Adeline's state, they 
 could not conjecture. It was assumed that he was in London ;
 
 THE SICK CHAMBER. 309 
 
 Adeline, for one, never thought of doubting it. All this while, 
 and not a single remembrance from him ! 
 
 Rose went to the table, turned over the books collected 
 there, and took up a volume of Tennyson. 
 
 " Not that," said Adeline, quickly glancing up with a faint 
 colour. '* Something else." 
 
 No, not that. He had given her the book, and been accus- 
 tomed to read it to her. How could she bear to hear it read 
 by another ? 
 
 Rose tried again : Beranger. " That won't do," she said. 
 "A pretty laugh you would have at my French accent ! " 
 
 "Your accent is not a bad one, Rose." 
 
 " It may pass in conversation. But to read poetry aloud in 
 
 any language but one's own, is What's this?" continued 
 
 Rose, interrupting herself as she opened another volume ; 
 which she as quickly dropped again. It was Bulwer's "Pil- 
 grims of the Rhine." 
 
 " That will do as well as another," said Adeline. 
 
 " No," shortly answered Rose, avoiding the book with a 
 gesture that was half a shrug and half a shudder. Adeline 
 stretched out her hand and drew her near, speaking in a low 
 murmuring tone. 
 
 " You fear to remind me of myself, Rose, in telling of Ger- 
 trude. Indeed, there is no analogy to be traced between the 
 cases," she added, with a bitter smile, " save in the nature of 
 the disease; and that we must both die. One might envy he?- 
 fate.'-' 
 
 " I don't like the book," persisted Rose. 
 
 " I do," said Adeline. " One tale in it I could never be 
 tired of I forget its title, but it begins, ' The angels strung 
 their harps in Heaven, and the ' " 
 
 " I know," interru])ted Rose, rapidly turning over the pages. 
 " Here it is. ' The Soul in Purgatory ; or. Love stronger than 
 Death.' It is a tale of woman's enduring love." 
 
 " Afid its reimrd" sighed Adeline. " Read it. It is very 
 short." 
 
 Rose began her reading. It was quite impossible to tell 
 whether Adeline listened or not : she sat silent, in her chair, 
 lier hand over her face ; and, when it was over, she remained 
 in the same position, making no comment, till the nurse came 
 in to give the medicine. 
 
 " I'm not wanted in there just now," said she, with that
 
 310 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 freedom of manner which is so characteristic of the depen- 
 dents in a French family, but which is never offensive, or even 
 borders on disrespect ; " so I'll sit here a bit." 
 
 " You can wheel the sofa nearer to the fire, nurse," said 
 Adehne. 
 
 It was done, and Adeline lay down upon it. Rose began 
 another tale, and read till dusk. 
 
 " Shall I stir the fire into a blaze, Adeline, and finish it now ; 
 or wait until candle-light ? " 
 
 There came no answen Mary Carr stole forward and bent 
 over Adeline. She had fallen asleep. Stay : not sleep ; but 
 into one of those restless, dreamy stupors akin to it. The 
 thought had more than once crossed them — did that Odesque 
 doctor, who chiefly saw to the medicine, put laudanum in it, 
 and were these feverish wanderings the result ? The uncertain 
 light of the wood fire played fitfully upon Adeline's face, re- 
 vealing its extreme beauty of feature and its deathly paleness. 
 Rose closed her book ; and Mary left Adeline's sofa, and stood 
 looking through the window on the dreary night. The nurse, 
 who had dropped into a doze herself, soothed by the mono- 
 tonous and incomprehensible tones of the foreign tongue, rose 
 and went downstairs for some wood. 
 
 Mary Carr had laid her finger with a warning gesture on 
 Rose Darling's arm, for sounds were heard from Adeline. 
 Turning from the darkened window where they had been hold- 
 ing a whispered colloquy, they held their breath to listen 
 Very distinct were the words in the silence of the room : 
 
 " Don't say it ! don't say it ! " murmured Adeline. " I tell 
 you there is no hope. He has been gone too long : one — two 
 — three — four — do you think I have not counted the weeks ? — 
 Why does he not come? — Why does he not write? — What's 
 this ? My letters ? thrust back upon me with scorn and insult ! 
 — What is he whispering to Sarah Beauclerc ? Oh, mercy ! 
 mercy ! " 
 
 The nurse re-entered the room, her arms laden with wood. 
 By some mishap she let a log fall to the floor, and the noise 
 aroused Adeline. Rose ran to the sofa, her eyes full of tears. 
 
 "Oh, Adeline," she sighed, leaning over her, "you should not 
 take it so heavily to heart. If things were at an end between 
 you and Mr. St. John, there was something noble rather than 
 the contrary in his returning you your letters. Indeed, we have 
 always seen him honourable in all he does. Another might
 
 THE SICK CHAMBER, 311 
 
 have kept them — have boasted of them — have shown them to 
 the world. I only wish," broke off Rose, going from Adeline's 
 affairs to her own, in the most unceremonious way, "that I 
 could get back all the love-letters I have Avritten ! What a 
 heap there'd be of them ! " 
 
 "What do you mean?" demanded Adeline, sitting up on the 
 sofa in her alarm. " Have I been saying anything in my 
 sleep ? " 
 
 " Not much — only a few words," said Mary Carr, stepping 
 forward and speaking in a calm, soothing tone, a very contrast 
 to Rose's excited one. "But we can see how it is about Mr. 
 St. John, Adeline. He left in ill-feeling, and the inward grief 
 is killing you by inches. If your mind were at rest, time might 
 restore you to health ; but, as it is, you are giving yourself 
 no chance of life." 
 
 "There is no chance for me," she answered ; "you know it. 
 If I were happy as I once was, as I once thought I should be ; 
 if I were even married to Mr, St. John, there would be no 
 chance of prolonged life for me ; none." 
 
 Mary Carr did know it ; but she strove to soothe her still. 
 
 " I might have expected all that has happened to me," smiled 
 Adeline, trying to turn the subject to a jest, the first approach 
 to voluntary smile or jest they had marked on her lips. " Do 
 you remember your words. Rose, on that notable first of 
 January, my ball-night — that some ill-fate was inevitably in 
 store for me ? " 
 
 "Rubbish!" said Rose. "I was an idiot, and a double 
 idiot : and I don't remember it." 
 
 But Rose did remember it, all too vividly. She remembered 
 how Adeline had laughed in ridicule, had spurned her words, 
 then ; in her summer-tide of pride and beauty. It was winter 
 with her now ! 
 
 There could be no further erroneous opinions on the point. 
 Physically, she was dying of consumption, as a matter of course, 
 and as the doctors said : but was she not just as much dying 
 of a broken heart ? The cruel pain was ever torturing her : 
 though her lungs had been strong and healthy, it might have 
 worked its work, 
 
 I hardly know how to continue this portion of the history, 
 and feel a great temptation to make a leap at once to its close. 
 Who cares to read of the daily life of a sick-chamber ? There 
 is so little variation in it : there was so little in hers. Adeline
 
 312 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 better or worse ; the visits of the doctors, and their opinions ; 
 a change in her medicine, pills for mixture, or mixture for pills; 
 and there you have about the whole history. Which medicine, 
 by the way, was ordered by the English physician. A French 
 one never gives any. He would not prescribe one dose, where 
 the English would choke you with five hundred. It is true. 
 Pills, powders, mixture ; mixture, powders, pills : five hundred 
 at the very least, where a Frenchman would give none. Warm 
 baths and fasting in abundance they order, but no medicine. 
 They are uncommonly free with the lancet, however ; with 
 leeches ; with anything else that draws blood. The first year 
 Eleanor Seymour (if you have not forgotten her) was at school 
 at Madame de Nino's, an illness broke out amidst the pupils, 
 and the school medical attendant was sent for. It was this 
 very Dr. Dorre, now attending Adeline de Castella. Five or 
 six of the younger girls seemed heavy and feverish, and there 
 were signs of an eruption on the skin. Monsieur le docteur 
 thought it would turn out to be measles or scarlatina, he could 
 not yet pronounce which ; and he ordered them to bed and to 
 take a few quarts of eau sucree : he then sent for the rest of 
 the pupils one by one, and bled them all round.* "A simple 
 measure of precaution," he said to Madame. 
 
 If this history of the sick-chamber is to be continued, we 
 must borrow some extracts from the diary of Mary Carr. A 
 good thing she kept one: otherwise there would have been 
 little record of this earlier period in the closing scenes of life. 
 
 Meanwhile it may be as well to mention that a sort of wild 
 wish — in its fervour it could be called little else — had taken 
 hold of Adeline : she wanted to return to Belport. Every one 
 at first opposed it. The cold would be greater in the seaport 
 town than it was at Beaufoy ; and the journey might do her 
 harm. There appeared to be only one consideration in its 
 favour ; but that was a strong one : they would be on the spot 
 with the doctors. She seemed to get better and stronger. 
 Signor de Castella came home and was astonished at the 
 improvement. Perhaps it was what he had not looked for. 
 
 Extract from the Diary of Mary Carr. 
 
 Nov. yd. — What can make her so anxious to return to Bel- 
 port? She is growing feverish about it, and the Signor and 
 
 * A fact, in all its details.
 
 THE SICK CHAMBER. 313 
 
 Madame sec that she is. Rose has been offering to bet me a 
 pair of gloves that it will end in our going. I hope it will. 
 This house seems to be dedicated to illness. Madame de 
 Beaufoy does not improve, and one of the servants has taken 
 gastric fever. 
 
 Belport, Belport ! It is the one wish of her existence ; the 
 theme of her daily prayer. Has she an idea that she may there 
 be in the way of hearing of him, perhaps of seeing him ? Or 
 is it that she would bid adieu to this place, hoping to bid adieu 
 at the same time to its remembrances ? 
 
 She is so much better ! She comes downstairs now, dressed 
 as she used to be, except the hair. It is braided under a pretty 
 little lace cap : the French are such people for keeping the 
 head warm ! Often on her shoulders she wears a light cash- 
 mere shawl : the one she put on the night when she attempted 
 to go away with Mr. St. John. " I wonder if she thinks of it ? " 
 I said yesterday to Rose. " What a donkey you are ! " was the 
 complimentary reply : "as if she did not think of that miserable 
 night and its mishaps continually ! " 
 
 We now know that Mr. St. John is in London. In looking 
 over the Times — which comes regularly to Madame de Beaufoy 
 — I saw his name amidst a host of others, as having attended 
 a public meeting: Frederick St. John, Esq., of Castle Wafer, 
 I put the paper into Adeline's hand, pointing to the list, and 
 then quitted the room. On my return to it the journal was 
 lying on the table, and her face was buried amidst the cushions 
 of the armchair. 
 
 Is this improvement to turn out a deceitful one ? It might 
 not, but for the ever-restless, agitated mind. A calm without, 
 a torrent within ! The weakness is no longer apparent ; the 
 cough is nearly gone. But she is inert and indifferent as ever ; 
 buried within herself. This apparently languid apathy, this 
 total indifference to life and its daily concerns, is set down by 
 her friends to bodily weakness ; and so they let it remain un- 
 checked and unaroused, and she indulges, unmolested, in all 
 the bitter feelings of a breaking lieart. 
 
 <dth. — These last few fine days have afforded the pretext for 
 complying with Adeline's wish, and here we are, once more, at 
 Belport, she wonderfully improved. Still better, still better ! 
 for how long ? Rose has resumed her wild gaiety of spirits, 
 and says she will sing a Te Deum for having left the dreary old 
 chateau and its ghosts behind us.
 
 314 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 A bed has been placed on the first-floor for AdeUne, in the 
 back drawing-room. This is better; for she can now reach 
 the front drawing-room, where we sit, without being exposed to 
 the cold air of the staircase. And should she be confined to 
 her room at the last, as may be expected, it will be more con- 
 venient for the servants ; and indeed in all respects. 
 
 7///. — Madame de Nino called to-day, bringing two of the 
 elder girls. Adeline asked them innumerable questions about 
 the school, and seemed really awakened to interest. Many 
 other friends have also called; compared with the gloomy 
 solitude of the chateau, each day since our arrival has been 
 like a levee. The doctors apparently see no impropriety in 
 this, for they don't forbid it. / think Adeline is better for it : 
 she has not the leisure to brood so entirely over the past. 
 She is still silent on the subject of hei misery, never hinting at 
 it. Mr. St. John's name is not mentioned by any one, and 
 the scenes and events of the last six months might be a dream, 
 for all the allusion ever made to them. Never was she so 
 beautiful as she is now ; delicate and fragile of course, but that 
 is a great charm in woman's loveliness. Her features are more 
 than ever conspicuous for their exquisite contour, her soft 
 brown eyes are of a sweeter sadness, her cheeks glow with a 
 transparent rose colour. Visitors look at her with astonish- 
 ment, almost question the fact of her late dangerous illness, 
 and say she is getting well. But there is no exertion : listless 
 and inanimate she sits, or lies, her trembling, fevered hands 
 holding one or other of the English journals — looking in them 
 for a name that she never finds. 
 
 Yesterday Rose was reading to her in a volume of Shelley, 
 when a letter from England was brought in, its superscription 
 in the handwriting of Mrs. Darling. Adeline looked up, eager 
 and flushed, signing to Rose to open it. Madame de Castella 
 has stared in her ladylike way at this betrayed emotion when- 
 ever letters come for Rose. We understand it : and Rose 
 always reads them to her. The Darlings are in London, know 
 people that Mr. St. John knows, and Adeline thinks there may 
 be a chance that his name will be mentioned in these letters. 
 " The letter will keep," said Rose, glancing cursorily into it ; 
 and she laid it down and resumed her book. 
 
 " I love, but I believe in love no more, 
 1 feel desire, but hope not. Oh, from Sleep 
 Ivlost vainly must my weary brain implore 
 Its long-lost flattery now : I wake to weep,
 
 THE SICK CHAMBER. 315 
 
 And sit, the long day, gnawing througli tlic core 
 Of my bitter heart " 
 
 I looked up at her, involuntarily, it was so applicable ; Rose 
 also made a momentary stop, and her glance wandered in 
 the same direction. Adeline's eyes met ours. It was one 
 of those awkward moments, that will happen to all ; and the 
 flush on Adeline's cheek deepened to crimson. It was very 
 applicable : 
 
 " I wake to weep, 
 And sit, the long day, gnawing through the core 
 Of my bitter heart." 
 
 Alas ! alas ! 
 
 Rose's letter contained ill news of the Darling famil)'. Her 
 quick sight saw what it was, and she hastened to put the letter 
 up, not caring to speak of it at once to Adeline. Really she is 
 growing more cautious than she used to be ! That poor little 
 child, the heir, in whose life was bound up so much of worldly 
 prosperity, is dead : he died more than a week ago. Rose is 
 in a state of what she is pleased to call " dumps." Firstly, for 
 the child's own sake : she never saw him but once, this summer 
 at Belport, but took a real liking for the little fellow ; secondly, 
 because Rose has orders to put herself into mourning. If Rose 
 hates one thing in this world more than another, it is a black 
 bonnet. 
 
 Adeline was standing by the fire to-day when the English 
 physician came in. He was struck with the iiuprovement in 
 her looks. "You are cheating us all," he said. "We shall 
 have a wedding yet." 
 
 "Or a funeral, doctor," quietly answered Adeline. 
 
 " I speak as I think," he seriously said. " I do believe that 
 now there is great hope of your recovery. If we could but get 
 you to the South ! " 
 
 " Adeline," I exclaimed, as the physician went out, and she 
 and I were alone, "you heard what he said. Those words 
 were worth a king's ransom." 
 
 "They were not worth a serf's," was her reply. "I appre- 
 ciate his motives. He imagines that the grave must of 
 necessity be a bitter and terrible prospect, and is willing to 
 cheer me with hopes, whether they prove true or false : as all 
 doctors do ; it is in their trade. But he knows perfectly well 
 that I must die."
 
 3i6 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " How calmly you speak ! One would think you coveted the 
 approach of death ! " 
 ' " Well— I don't know that I regret it." 
 
 " Has life no longer a charm for you ? Oh, that you had 
 never met Frederick St. John ! " 
 
 " Don't say so ! He came to me in mercy." 
 
 A burst of tears succeeded to the words, startling me nearly 
 out of my senses. 
 
 "There! that's your fault," she cried, with a wretched 
 attempt at gaiety. " In talking of regret, you made me think 
 of my dear papa and mamma. Their grief will be dreadful." 
 
 " Oh, Adeline, don't try to turn it off in this way," I 
 stammered, not knowing what to say, and horribly vexed with 
 myself " What do you mean — that he came to you in mercy 
 with this wretchedness upon you, the crushed spirit, the break- 
 ing heart ? I see what you go through day by day, night by 
 night. Is there any cessation to the pain ? Is it not as one 
 never-ending anguish ? " 
 
 Adeline was strangely excited ; her eyes glistening, her 
 cheeks a burning crimson, and her white, fragile, feverish hands 
 fastening upon mine. 
 
 "It is all you say," she whispered. "And now he is with 
 another ! " 
 
 " I can understand the misery that thought brings." 
 
 " No, you can't. If my heart were laid bare before you, and 
 you saw the wretchedness there as it really is, it would appear 
 to you all as the mania of one insane ; and to him as to the 
 rest." 
 
 " And yet you say this has come to you in mercy ! ' 
 
 " It has — it has. I see it all now. How else should I have 
 been reconciled to die? The germs of consumption must 
 have been in me from the first," she concluded, after a pause. 
 " You schoolgirls used to tell me I inherited all the Eng- 
 lish characteristics ; and consumption, I suppose, made one of 
 them." 
 
 f)ih. — Miss de Beauioy is here tor a day or two, and we 
 had a quiet little soiree yesterday evening. Aunt Agnes, in the 
 plentitude of her delight at the improvement visible in Adeline, 
 limped down, poor lady in a splendid canary-coloured silk 
 gown, all standing on end with richness. Who should come in 
 unexpectedly after tea, but Monsieur le Comte le Coq de 
 Monty ! (I do love, after the fashion of the good Vicar of Wake-
 
 THE SICK CHAMBER. 317 
 
 field, to give that whole name — /, not Miss Carr). Business 
 with the Sous-Prefet brought him 10 Belport. He inquired very 
 mal a propos, whether we had recently seen or heard of ]\Ir. St. 
 John ; and while we were openmg our mouths, deliberating 
 what to say, Rose, always apt and ready, took upon herself 
 evasively to answer that he was in England, at Castle ^^'afer, 
 Adeline's face was turned away, but the rest of the family 
 looked glum enough. De Monty, very unconsciously, but not 
 the less out of time and tune, entered into a flowery oration 
 in praise of Mr. St. John, saying he was the most attractive 
 man he ever came in contact with ; which, considering St. 
 John is an Englishman, and de Monty French, was very great 
 praise indeed. 
 
 She looked so lovely this morning, as she sat in the great 
 chair, that I could not forbear an exclamation. But it is all 
 the same to her, admiration and indifference ; nothing arouses 
 her from that dreamy apathy. 
 
 "Ours is a handsome family," she answered. "See how 
 good-looking papa is ! I have inherited his features." 
 
 Not the slightest sign of gratified vanity as she spoke. All 
 i/iai had passed away with Frederick St. John. 
 
 That Signor de Castella was excessively handsome, I did not 
 deny ; but she was much more so. 
 
 "The complexion makes a difference," said Adeline, in 
 ansiver. "Papa is pale; sallow you may term it, and in 
 complexion I am like mamma. She owes hers, no doubt, to 
 her English origin. You never saw a Frenchwoman with that 
 marvellous complexion, at once brilliant and delicate." 
 
 I marvelled at her wondrous indifference. " You were 
 formerly sufficiently conscious of your beauty, Adeline ; you 
 seem strangely callous to it now." 
 
 " I have outlived many feelings that were once strong within 
 me. Vanity now for me I " 
 
 " Outlived ? It is a remarkable term for one of your age." 
 
 '• It is appropriate," she rejoined, quickly. " In the last (cw 
 months I have aged years." 
 
 " Can this be ? " 
 
 "You have read of hair turning grey in a single night," she 
 whispered; " it was thus with my feelings. T/ny became grey. 
 I was in a dream so blissful that the earth to me was as one 
 universal paradise ; and I awoke to reality. That awaking added 
 the age of a whole life to my heart."
 
 3i8 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 '• I cannot unaerstand this," I said. And I really can't. 
 
 " I hope you never will. Self-experience alone could en- 
 lighten you, nothing else ; not all the books and arguments in 
 the world." 
 
 " You allude to the time when Mr. St. John went away in 
 anger." 
 
 "Not so," she murmured, scarcely above her breath. 
 " When I learnt that he loved another." 
 
 " I think it is fallacy, that idea of yours, Adeline," I said, 
 determined to dispute it for her own sake. " How could he 
 have cared for Sarah Beauclerc and for you at the same time ? 
 He could not love you both." 
 
 " No, he could not," she said, a vivid, painful flush rising to 
 her cheeks. " But he knew her first, and he is with her now. 
 Can you draw no deduction ? " 
 
 "We don't know where he is," I said. "Was your sister 
 good-looking, Adeline ? " 
 
 " Maria was beautiful," she replied. " We were much alike, 
 resembling papa in feature, and mamma in figure and com- 
 plexion." 
 
 "And she also died of consumption. What an insidious 
 disease it is ! How it seems to cling to particular families !" 
 
 " What is running in your head now, Mary? Maria died of 
 scarlet fever. She was delicate as a child, and I believe they 
 feared she might become consumptive. I don't know what 
 grounds they had to judge by: perhaps little other than her 
 fragile loveliness." 
 
 "If consumption is fond of attacking great beauties, perhaps 
 Rose will go off in one." 
 
 " Rose ! " answered Adeline — and there was a smile on her 
 lip — " if Rose goes off in anything, it will be in a coach-and- 
 four with white favours." 
 
 And so the days pass on ; Adeline, I fear, not really better. 
 To look at her, she is well — well, and very lovely ; but so she 
 was before. If they could but get her to the South ! But with 
 this winter weather it is impossible : the doctors say she would 
 die on the road. If they had but taken advantage, while they 
 might have done it, of the glorious summer weather ! If! — if! 
 — if! These " ifs " follow too many of us through life ; as they 
 may henceforth follow the Signor and Madame de Castella.
 
 ( 319 ) 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE LITTLE CHILD GONE. 
 
 You have not failed to notice the one item of news in IMiss 
 Can's diary — the death of a httle heir — or to recognize it for 
 the young heir of Alnwick. 
 
 Since quitting Belport, Mrs. Carleton St. John had pursued 
 the same course of restless motion until within two or three 
 weeks of the final close. Whether she would have arrested her 
 wandering steps then of her own accord, must be a question ; 
 but the sick-nurse, Mrs. Brayford, interfered. " You are taking 
 away every chance for his life, madam," she said, one day. "If 
 you persist in dragging the child about, I must leave you, for I 
 cannot stay to see it. It will surely prove fatal to him before 
 his time." 
 
 A sharp cry escaped from Mrs. St. John as she listened. 
 The words seemed to tear the flimsy make-believe veil from 
 her eyes : the end was very near : and who knows how long 
 she had felt the conviction ? They had halted this time at 
 Ypres, a city of Belgium, or ^^'est Tlanders, famous for its 
 manufactures of cloths and serges. Handsome apartments 
 were hastily procured, and George was moved into them. Not 
 very ill yet did the child appear; only so terribly worn and 
 weak. Mrs. St, John's anguish, who shall tell of it? She 
 loved this child, as you have seen, with a fierce, jealous love. 
 He was the only being in the world who had filled every crevice 
 of her proud and impassioned heart. It was for his sake she 
 had hated Benja ; it was by Benja's death — and she alone knew 
 whether she had in any shape contributed to that death, or 
 whether she was wholly innocent — that he had benefited. 
 That some dread was upon her, apart from the child's state, 
 was evident — clinging to her like a nightmare. 
 
 The disease took a suddenly decisive form the second day 
 after their settling down at Ypres, telling of danger, speaking 
 palpably of the end. He could not have been moved from 
 Ypres now, had it been ever so much wished for. Mrs. St. 
 John called in, one after another, the chief doctors of the town; 
 she summoned over at a great expense two physicians from 
 London ; she sent an imperative mandate to Mr. Pym ; and
 
 320 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 not one of them saw the slightest chance of saving the boy's 
 life. She watched his fair face grow paler ; his feverish limbs 
 waste and become weaker. She never shed a tear. For days 
 together she would be almost unnaturally calm ; but once or 
 twice a burst of anguish had broken from her, fearful in itself, 
 painful to witness. One of these paroxysms was yielded to in 
 the presence of the child. Yielded to ? Poor thing ! perhaps 
 she could not help it ! George was frightened almost to death. 
 She flung herself about the large old foreign room as one 
 insane, tearing her hair, and calling upon the child to live — 
 to live. 
 
 " Mamma, don't, don't ! " panted the little lad, in his terror. 
 " Don't be so sorry for me ! I am going to heaven, to be with 
 Benja." 
 
 At his first cry she had stopped and fallen on her knees 
 beside him. Up again now; up again at the words, and 
 darting about as if possessed by a demon, her hands to her 
 temples. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, don't frighten me," shrieked the child. " I 
 shall be glad to go to Benja." 
 
 Cease, Georgy, cease ! for every innocent word that you utter 
 seems but renewed torture to your poor mother. Look at her, 
 as she sinks down there on the floor, and groans aloud in her 
 sharp agony. 
 
 It was on the day of this outbreak, an hour or two after it, 
 that Mr. Pym arrived. The good man, utterly innocent of 
 French, and not accustomed to foreign travel — or indeed to 
 much travelling of any sort, for he was quite a fixture at 
 Alnwick — had contrived to reach Ypres some two days later 
 than he should have done ; having been taken off, perplexity 
 alone knew whither. In the first place, he had called the town 
 " Wypers " — which was not the surest way of getting to Ypres. 
 However, here he was at last, a little ruffled certainly, and con- 
 fused in mind, but on the whole thankful that he was found, 
 and not lost for good. 
 
 George was lying on some pillows when the surgeon entered ; 
 a very wan, white, feeble George indeed — a skeleton of a 
 George. But he held out his little transparent hand, with a 
 glad smile of welcome at the home-face. 
 
 " I've not forgotten you ! " he panted, his poor breath very 
 short and laboured now. " Mamma said you were coming ; 
 she thought you'd come yesterday."
 
 THE LITTLE CHILD GONE. 321 
 
 "Ay, so did I. But I — lost my way, Georgy." 
 
 Mr. Pym drew a chair dose to the boy, and sat looking at 
 him. Perhaps he was thinking that in all his practice he had 
 rarely seen a child's frame so completely worn. But a few days 
 of life were left in it ; perhaps not that. The blue eyes, large 
 and lustrous, were cast up at the surgeon's face ; the hot fragile 
 hand lay passively in the strong firm palm. 
 
 " Did you see Benja's pony ? " 
 ' " Benja's pony ! " mechanically repeated the doctor, whose 
 thoughts were far away from ponies. " I think it is still in the 
 stable at Alnwick." 
 
 "I was to ride it when I went home. Prance said so. 
 Grandmamma said so. I wanted to go home to ride it ; and 
 to see Brave ; but I'm not going now." 
 
 "Not just yet," said the surgeon. "You are not strong 
 enough, are you, Georgy? How is mamma? " 
 
 " ril tell Mrs. St. John that you are here, sir ! " interposed a 
 respectable-looking woman, rising from a chair at the other end 
 of the large room. 
 
 It startled Mr. Pym. He had not observed that any one 
 was present. She went out and closed the door. 
 
 " Who was that, George ? " 
 
 " It's Mrs. Brayford ! " 
 
 " Oh, ay ; Nurse Brayford. I heard of her from Mrs. 
 Darling." 
 
 •' Mamma won't let her be called nurse. She said I did 
 not want a nurse. We call her Brayford. Have you seen 
 Benja?" continued the lad, speaking better, now that the 
 excitement arising from the doctor's entrance had subsided ; 
 but with the last words his voice insensibly dropped to a low 
 tone. 
 
 " Seen Benja ! " echoed Mr. Pym, in his surprise. " Do you 
 mean Benja's tomb ? It is a very nice one : on rather too large 
 a scale, though, for my taste, considering his age." 
 
 " No," said George ; " I mean Benja." 
 
 " Why, child, how could I see Benja? He is gone away 
 from our eyes ; he is safe in heaven." 
 
 " Mamma sees him." 
 
 " Oh no, she does not," said Mr. Pym, after a slight pause. 
 
 " But she does," persisted Georgy. "She sees him in the 
 night, and she lays hold of me and hides her face. She sees 
 the lighted church ; it blazes up sometimes." 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. 21
 
 322 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 There was a curious look of speculation in Mr. Pym's eyes 
 as he gazed at the unconscious speaker. " Mamma dreams," 
 he said; "as we all do. Do you remember my old horse Bob, 
 Georgy? Well, he died this summer, poor fellow, of old age. 
 I dream of him some nights, Georgy ; I think he's carrying me 
 along the road at a sharp trot." 
 
 Georgy's imaginative young mind, quickened by bodily 
 weakness, took hold of the words with interest. " Do you see 
 his saddle and bridle, Mr. Pym ? '' 
 
 " His saddle, and bridle, and stirrups, and all ; and his old 
 mane and tail. They had grown so grey, Georgy. He was a 
 faithtul, hard-working servant to me : I shall never have his 
 like again," 
 
 " Have you got another horse ? Is his name Bob ? " 
 
 " I have another, and his name's Jack. He's not a second 
 Bob, Georgy. When he has to stand before people's doors in 
 my gig, he gets impatient and begins to dance. One day when 
 I was on him, he tried to throw me, and we had a fight for the 
 mastery : another day, when I wanted him to turn down Bell- 
 yard, he wished to walk into the brush-shop, and we had 
 another fight." 
 
 Georgy laughed, with all the little strength left in him. "I 
 wouldn't keep him. Benja's pony never did all that." 
 
 " Well, you see, Georgy, I am trying to train, him into 
 better ways; that's why I keep him. But he's a naughty 
 Jack." 
 
 " Why shouldn't you have Benja's pony? I'm sure mamma 
 would give it you : she says she doesn't care what becomes of 
 anything left at Alnwick, It was for me ; but I'm not going 
 back now ; I'm going to heaven." 
 
 " Ah, my little generous lad, Benja's pony would not carry 
 me ; I'm heavier than you and Benja. And what about the 
 French tongue, Georgy ? Are you picking it up ? " 
 
 "It's not French they talk here," said Georgy; "it's 
 Flemish. We have two Flemish servants, and you should hear 
 them jabbering." 
 
 Mr. Pym stroked back the child's flaxen hair : to his touch it 
 felt damp and dead. In mind, in speech, he seemed to have 
 advanced quite three years, though it was not yet a twelvemonth 
 since he quitted Alnwick. 
 
 The door opened, and Mrs. St. John came into the room. 
 Not the anguished excited woman who had gone into that
 
 THE LITTLE CHILD GONE. 323 
 
 insane paroxysm an hour or two before ; but a cold high-bred 
 gentlewoman, whose calm exterior and apparently impassive 
 feelings were entirely under self-control. Her dark hair, 
 luxuriant as ever, was elaborately dressed, and her black silk 
 gown was of rich material and the most fashionable make. 
 
 " I have been expecting you these two days," she said as she 
 advanced. " I thought this morning you must have given up 
 all intention of coming, and I looked for a letter instead." 
 
 " Ah," said Mr, Pym, holding out his hand to her, " I got 
 lost, as I have been telling Georgy. Never was abroad before 
 in my life : never got puzzled by any language but once, and 
 that was in Wales." 
 
 She heard nothing in the sentence except the one word, 
 " Georgy," 
 
 " How do you think he is looking, Mr, Pym ? " 
 
 " Well — there might be more flesh upon his bones," was all 
 the surgeon answered, his tone bordering upon jocularity rather 
 than dismay. Doubtless he knew what he was about. 
 
 " I thought, if any one could do him good, it was you," said 
 Mrs. St. John. " The doctors here say they cannot ; the phy- 
 sicians I had over from London said they could not, and went 
 back again : and then I sent for you." 
 
 "Ah, yes," answered Mr, Pym, in an unmeaning tone. " Pm 
 glad to see my little friend again. Georgy and I always got on 
 well together, except on the score of physic. Do you remember 
 those powders, Georgy, that you and I used to have a battle 
 over ? " 
 
 "Don't I!" answered Georgy. " But you won — you made 
 me take them." 
 
 The surgeon laughed. 
 
 " Can you give him some powders now ? " asked Mrs. St, 
 John ; and there was nothing of eagerness in her voice and 
 manner, only in her glittering eyes. 
 
 "Pm not sure that it is exactly powders he requires now," 
 was the answer, spoken in evasion. " We'll see." 
 
 Mrs. St. John walked to the distant window and stood there. 
 For a moment her face was pressed against its cold glass, as 
 one whose brow is in pain ; the next, she stood up — tall, 
 haughty, commanding ; not a symptom of care upon her hand- 
 some face, not a shade of sorrow in her resolute eye. It is very 
 probable that this enforced self-control, persisted in as long as 
 Mr. Pym was at Ypres, cost her more than even he dreamt of.
 
 334 ST, MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Turning her head, she beckoned to the surgeon. Mr. Pym, 
 waiting only to cover George with the silken coverlet, for the 
 boy had settled down on his pillow exhausted, and seemed 
 inclined to sleep, approached her. The house on this side 
 faced the green fields ; there was no noise, no bustle ; all that 
 was on the other side. A quaint old Flemish tower and clock, 
 from which the hands were gone, stared them in the face at a 
 field's distance : the Flemish cook had tried to make Prance 
 understand that it was about to be taken down, when that 
 fastidious lady's-maid protested against its ugliness. 
 
 " I have sent for you for two purposes, Mr. Pym," began 
 Mrs. St. John, taking a seat, and motioning the surgeon to 
 another, both of them beyond the reach of George's ears. " The 
 medical men I have called in to him, say, or intimate, that he 
 cannot live ; they left one by one, all saying it. The two who 
 attend him regularly were here this morning. I saw them go 
 out whispering, and I know they were saying it. I have sent 
 for you to confirm or dispute this : you know what is the con- 
 stitution of the St. Johns, and are acquainted with his. Must 
 George die? " 
 
 Not a sign of emotion was there about her. Could this be 
 the same woman whose excitement for months had been a 
 world's wonder, whose anguish, when uncontrolled, had been 
 a terror to her servants ? She sat with an impassive face, her 
 tones measured, her voice cold and calm. One very small sign 
 of restlessness there was, and it lay in her fingers. A thin 
 cambric handkerchief was between them, and she was stealthily 
 pulling at one of its corners ; when the interview was over, 
 the fine texture of threads had given way, leaving a broad hole 
 there. 
 
 Mr. Pym knew that the child must die : it had required but 
 one moment's glance to see that the angel of death was already 
 on the wing , but to say this to Mrs. St. John might be neither 
 kind nor expedient. He was beginning some evasive reply, 
 when she stopped him peremptorily. 
 
 " I sent for you to know the truth, and you must tell it me. 
 Must George die ? " 
 
 That she was in no mood to be trifled with, the surgeon saw. 
 To attempt it might not be wise. Besides, the signs on George's 
 face were such this day, that she must see what the truth was 
 as clearly as he saw it. 
 ■ " 1 think him very ill, Mrs. St. John. He is in danger."
 
 THE LITTLE CHILD GONE. 325 
 
 " That is not a decisive answer yet. Can't you give me one ? 
 — you have come far enough to do it. Will he die ? " 
 
 ^' I fear he will." 
 
 " He has gone too far to recover ? He will shortly " 
 
 A momentary pause, but she recovered instantly. " A few 
 hours will see the end ? " 
 
 " I do not say that. A few days will no doubt see it." 
 
 Mrs. St. John looked across at the handless clock, as if ask- 
 ing why it did not go on. The surgeon glanced at her face, 
 and was thankful for its composure. She resumed : 
 
 " Then the other motive with which I sent for you need 
 scarcely be entered upon. It was, that you, who have watched 
 him from his birth, might perhaps suggest some cure that the 
 others could not." 
 
 " Some mode of treatment, I dare say you mean, Mrs. St. 
 John. No, I fear nothing would have been effectual. I could 
 not save his father ; there is no probability that I could have 
 saved him." 
 
 "Why is it that the St. Johns of Alnwick die in this way?" 
 she returned, her voice taking a passionate tone. 
 
 " Nay," returned Mr. Pym, soothingly, " none may question 
 the will of God. It is not given to us always to discern causes : 
 we see here through a glass darkly. Of one thing we may ever 
 rest assured, Mrs. St. John — that at the Great Final clearance 
 we shall see how merciful God has been, how all happened for 
 the best." 
 
 "Is he dying of the same wasting disease that his father died 
 of?" she resumed after a pause. "Or of — of — of what he took 
 the evening of the birthday dinner?" 
 
 "What did he take the evening of the birthday dinner?" 
 returned Mr. Pym, asking the question in surprise. " He took 
 nothing then, that I know of." 
 
 " He took a fright — if nothing else. / have never under- 
 stood what it was that ailed him." 
 
 " Pooh ! A momentary childish fright, and a fit of indiges- 
 tion," said the surgeon, lightly. "They are not things to injure 
 a boy permanently." 
 
 " He has never been well since," she said, in low tones. 
 " Never for an hour." 
 
 "The disease must have been stealing upon him then, I 
 suppose, and the little derangement to the system that night 
 brought out its first symptoms." observed Mr. Pym. " Who
 
 326 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 knows but he might have caught it from his father during the 
 latter's illness ? " 
 
 "You think, then, that nothing could have saved him ? " 
 
 " I think it could not. Where there is a strong tendency to 
 hereditary disease, it is sure to show itself." 
 
 "And — I have not taken him about too much? It has not 
 injured him? " 
 
 " I hope not," cheerfully rephed Mr. Pym. Where was the 
 use of his saying it had, whatever his opinion might be ? 
 
 She had her finger right up through the hole in the hand- 
 kerchief now, and was looking at it — at the finger, not the hole. 
 Mr. Pym watched every turn of her features, seeming to keep 
 his eyes quite the other way. 
 
 " What right had George St. John to marry ? " she suddenly 
 cried. " If people know themselves liable to any disease that 
 cuts off life, they should keep single ; and so let the curse die 
 out." 
 
 "Ay, if people would ! Some have married who had a less 
 right to do so than George St. John." 
 
 The remark seemed to have escaped him unwittingly. Mrs. 
 St. John turned her eyes upon him, and he hastened to resume : 
 
 " No blame could attach to your husband for marrying, Mrs. 
 St. John. When he did so, he was, to all appearance, a hale, 
 healthy man." 
 
 " He might have suspected that the waste would come upon 
 him. It had killed the St. Johns of Alnwick who had gone 
 before him." 
 
 " It had killed one or two of them. But how was George 
 St. John to know that it would attack him ? He might have 
 inherited his mother's constitution : hers was a sound one." 
 
 " And why — and why — could not Georgy inherit mine ? " 
 
 The pauses were evidently made to recall calmness, to 
 subdue the rebellious breath, which was shortening. A very 
 peculiar expression momentarily crossed the surgeon's fiice. 
 
 " All is for the best, Mrs. St. John. Rely 7ipo?i //." 
 
 A little feeble voice was calling out for mamma, and Mr. 
 Pym hastily quitted his seat at the sound. Any one might 
 have said he was glad of the interruption. The child's sweet 
 blue eyes were raised as the surgeon bent over him, and his 
 wan lips parted with a smile. 
 
 " Best as it is ; oh, thank God, best as it is ! " he murmured 
 to himself, as he gently drew the once pretty curls from the
 
 THE LITTLE CHILD GONE. 327 
 
 white and wasted brow, and suffered his hand to rest there. 
 " A short time, and then — one of God s angels. Here, had he 
 lived — better not think of it. All's for the best." 
 
 The surgeon remained twenty-four hours at Ypres, and then 
 took his departure. Not once, during all that time, was Mrs. 
 St. John off her guard, or did she lose her self-possession. 
 
 The hour came for the child to die, and he was laid in his 
 little grave in Belgium. For a day or two, Mrs. St. John was 
 almost unnaturally calm, but the second night, at midnight, her 
 cries of despair aroused the house, and a vioLnt scene came on. 
 Prance shut herself up in the room with h-r, and silence at 
 length supervened. So far as Mrs. Brayford could make out 
 — but that was not very much, through Prance's jealous care — 
 the unhappy lady laboured under some perpetual terror — fancy- 
 ing she saw a vision of Benja coming towards her with a lighted 
 church. These paroxysms occurred almost nightly : and Mrs. 
 St. John grew into a terribly nervous state from the very dread 
 of them. She sometimes drank a quantity of brand;, to the 
 dismay of Prance : not, poor thing, from love of it, but as an 
 opiate. 
 
 What would be her career now ? It would seem that the old 
 restlessness, the hurrying about from place to place, would form 
 a feature in it. No sooner were the child's remains removed 
 from her sight, than the eagerness for change came on. It had 
 been thought by all around her that George would have been 
 taken to Alnwick, to be interred with his forefathers, but it had 
 not pleased Mrs. St. John to give orders to that effect. Indeed, 
 she gave no orders at all ; and but for Prance, the tidings had 
 not been conveyed even to Mrs. Darling. The blow fallen, 
 all else in the world seemed a blank to the bceaved mother. 
 Apart from the child's personal loss, his' death took from her 
 state and station; and she was not one to di. regard those 
 benefits. That the boy had been more precious to her than 
 heaven, was unhappil too true ; and all else had died with 
 him. If she had indeed any sin upon her conscience con- 
 nected with that fatal night, what terrible retribution must now 
 have been hers. Were Benja living, she would still be in the 
 enjoyment of wealth, pride, power ; would still be reigning at 
 the once much-coveted Hall of Alnwick, its sole mistress. With 
 the death of the children, all had gone from her. No human 
 care or skill could have saved the life of her own son ; but 
 Benja ? — Heaven did not call Jiim.
 
 328 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 It seemed that the ill-fated boy's image was rarely absent 
 from her. Not the burning figure, flying about and screaming 
 (as there could be no reasonable doubt he did fly about and 
 scream), but the happy child, marching to and fro in the room, 
 all pleased with his pretty toy, the lighted church. After 
 George's death, when grief was telling upon her S3'stem and 
 calling forth all of nervousness inherent in it, she hardly dared 
 to be alone in the dark, lest the sight should appear to her ; 
 she dreaded the waking up at night, and Prance's bed was 
 removed into her room. A little time to renew her strength 
 of body, and these nervous fancies would subside ; but mean- 
 while there was one great comprehensive dread upon her — the 
 anniversary of the fatal day, the loth of November, — St. Martin's 
 Eve. It was close at hand, — the intervening hours were slipping 
 past with giant strides ; and she asked herself how she should 
 support its remembrances. " Oh, that he had lived ! that he 
 were at my side now ! that I could give to him the love I did 
 not give him in hfe ! " she murmured, alluding to poor Benja. 
 
 From Ypres she hastened away to Lille, and there spent a 
 day or two ; but she thought she would go back to England. 
 That renowned saint's vigil was dawning now, for this was the 
 ninth. Should she spend the tenth in travelling ? — or remain 
 where she was, at rest, until the eleventh? At rest! — while 
 this state of mind was upon her ? It were mockery to call it 
 so. Rather let her whirl over the earth night and day, as the 
 fierce raven whirled over the waters on being set loose from the 
 Ark ; but not again let her hope for rest ! 
 
 The tenth day came in, and she was to all appearance calm. 
 But a fit of restlessness came upon her in the course of the 
 morning, and she gave orders to depart at once for a certain 
 town on the coast — a town belonging to France now, but whose 
 population still cling to their Flemish tongue. A steamer was 
 about to leave the port of this town for London that night, and 
 the sudden idea had taken her that she would go by it — to the 
 intense indignation of Prance, who had never in all her life 
 heard of civilized beings crossing the Channel except by the 
 short passage. 
 
 They quitted Lille, and arrived at the town about four in the 
 afternoon, putting up at the large hotel. Mrs. Brayford was 
 still in her train : her services had been useful during the 
 recent excited state of Mrs. St. John ; but she was not to attend 
 her to England, and here they would part company.
 
 THE LITTLE CHILD GONE. 529 
 
 " Will Madame dine in her salon, or at the table-d'hote ? " 
 inquired the head-waiter of the man-servant, in sufficiently plain 
 English. 
 
 "At the table-d'hote, no doubt," was the man's reply, speaking 
 in accordance with his own opinion. "Madame has lost her 
 two children, and is in low spirits, not caring to be much alone. 
 To-day is the anniversary of the eldest's death." 
 
 " Tiens ! " returned the waiter. " To-day is the eve of St. 
 Martin. All the children in the town will be gay to-night." 
 
 " Yes, it's the eve of St. Martin," assented the servant, paying 
 no attention to the other remark, and not in the least under- 
 standing it. 
 
 The domestic proved correct in his surmises. At five o'clock, 
 when the bell rang for table-d'hote, Mrs. Carleton St. John 
 entered the dining-room. Very few were present ; all gentle- 
 men, except herself, and mostly pensionnaires ; the hotels on 
 the coast are empty at that season. The dinner was excellent, 
 but it did not last long ; and the gentlemen, one by one, folded 
 their large serviettes, and quitted the room. 
 
 She was seated facing the mantelpiece, its clock in front of 
 her. The hands were approaching six — the very hour when, 
 twelve months before, while she sat in her dining-room at 
 Alnwick, Benja was on fire with none near to rescue him. 
 Nervousness tells in various ways upon the human frame, and 
 it seemed to Mrs. St. John that the striking of the hour would 
 be her own knell. Every symptom of one of those frightful 
 paroxysms was stealing over her, and she dreaded it with an 
 awful dread. As long as the rest of the dinner-guests were 
 present, endurance was possible, though her brain had throbbed, 
 her hands had trembled. But they were gone, those gentle- 
 men. They had gazed on her beauty as she sat before them, 
 and wondered that one so young could be so wan and careworn. 
 A choking sensation oppressed her; her throat seemed to swell 
 with it; and that sure minute-hand grew nearer and nearer. 
 Invalids have strange fancies ; and this poor woman was an 
 invalid both in body and mind. 
 
 The agitation increased. She glanced round the large space 
 of the darkened room — for the waiter, as was his custom, had 
 put out the side-lamps now that dinner was over — almost 
 believing that she should see Benja. The hands were ail-but 
 pointing to the hour ; the silence was growing horrible, and 
 she suddenly addressed an observation to the waiter at the
 
 330 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 sideboard behind her; anything to break it. There was no 
 answer. Mrs. Carleton St. John turned sharply round, and 
 became aware that the man had gone out ; that she was alone 
 in that dreary room. Alone ! The nervous climax had come ; 
 and with a cry of horror, she flew out at the door, and up the 
 broad lighted staircase. 
 
 What is it that comes over us in these moments of super- 
 stitious fear? Surely we have all experienced this sensation: 
 ay, even we who pride ourselves upon our clear consciences — 
 the dread of looking behind us. Yet look we must, and do. 
 The unhappy lady had only taken a few steps up the stairs, 
 when she turned her head in the impulse of desperation, and 
 there — tho-e — at the foot of the stairs, as if he had but stepped 
 in through the open doors of the courtyard, stood the indis- 
 tinct form of a boy, bearing a lighted church; the very fac- 
 simile of the one that other boy had borne on his birthday 
 night, while a dull, wild, unearthly sound, apparently proceed- 
 ing from him, smote upon her ear. 
 
 She knew not how she got up the stairs, how she burst into 
 her chamber in the long corridor. Prance ought to have been 
 there ; but Prance was not : there was only the wood-fire \\\ 
 the grate ; the two wax lights on the mantelpiece. 
 
 And at the same moment she became conscious of hearing 
 a strange noise ; the wildest sounds that ever struck on the ear 
 of man. They seemed to come from the street ; the very air 
 resounded with them ; louder and louder they grew ; loud 
 enough to make a deaf man hear, to strike the most equable 
 mind with a vague sense of momentary terror. The same 
 basilisk impulse that had caused her to glance round on the 
 staircase, drew her now to the window. She dashed it open 
 and leaned out — perhaps for company in her desperate lone- 
 liness, poor thing ! But — what was it she beheld ? 
 
 In all parts of the street, in every corner of it, distant, near, 
 nearer, pouring into it from all directions, as if they were making 
 for the hotel, as if they were making for her, flocking into it in 
 crowds,— from the Place Jean Bart, from the Rue de I'Eglise, 
 from the Rue Nationale, from the Rue David-d' Angers, from 
 the Place Napoleon, — came shoals upon shoals of lighted 
 churches, toys, similar to the one she had just seen below, to 
 the one carried by that unfortunate child a year ago, at Alnwick. 
 Of all sizes, of all forms, of various degrees of clearness and 
 light, a few were red and a few were green, came on these
 
 THE LITTLE CHILD GONE. 331 
 
 conspicuous things : paper models of cottages, of houses, of 
 towers, of lanterns, of castles, and many models of churches ; 
 on, on they pressed ; accompanied by the horrible din of these 
 hollow and unearthly sounds. With an awful cry, that was 
 lost in the depths of the room — what could be heard amidst 
 that discordant babel ?— Mrs. St. John turned to fly, and fell 
 to the floor in convulsions. She had only imagified that she 
 saw Benja in those previous nervous dreams of hers : now it 
 seemed that the dream had passed into reality, and these were 
 a thousand Benjas, in flesh and blood, come to mock at hen 
 
 And where was Prance ? Her mistress had said to her on 
 going down to dinner, " Wait for me in my room ; " but Prance 
 for once neglected to observe the mandate. For one thing, 
 she had not supposed dinner would be over so soon. Prance 
 was only in the next chamber : perfectly absorbed, both she 
 and Mrs. Brayford, in this strange sight, which was all real ; 
 not supernatural, as perhaps poor Mrs. St. John had been 
 thinking. They stood at the window both of them, their necks 
 stretched out as far as they could stretch, gazing with amazed 
 eyes at all this light and din. Nothing of the supernatural did 
 it bear for them : they saw the scene as it was, but wondered 
 at its cause and meaning. It was a wonderfully novel and 
 pretty sight, though the two women kept petulantly stopping 
 their ears and laughing at the din. The lighted toys, lanterns, 
 churches, or whatever you please to call them, were chiefly 
 composed of paper, the frames of splinters of wood ; a few 
 were of glass. They were borne aloft on long sticks or poles, 
 chiefly by children ; but it seemed as if the whole population 
 had turned out to escort them ; as indeed it had. The Flemish 
 maids, in their white caps, carried these toys as well as the 
 children, all in a state of broad delight, except when one of 
 the lanterns took fire and was extinguished for evermore. It 
 was a calm night : it generally is so, the inhabitants of that 
 town will tell you, on St. Martin's Eve. The uproar proceeded 
 from }ior)is ; cows' horns, clay horns, brass horns, any horns ; 
 one of which every lad under twenty held to his lips, blowing 
 with all his might. Prance, who rarely exhibited curiosity 
 about any earthly thing, was curious as to this, and sought for 
 an explanation amidst the servants of the hotel. The following 
 was the substance of it — 
 
 When the saint, Martin, was on earth in the flesh, sojourning 
 in this French-Flemish town, his ass was lost one dark night on
 
 332 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 the neighbouring downs. The holy man was in despair, and 
 called upon the inhabitants to aid him in his search. The 
 whole population responded with a will, and turned out with 
 horns and lanterns, a dense fog prevailing at the time. Tradi- 
 tion says their efforts were successful, and the lost beast was 
 restored to its owner. Hence commenced this annual custom, 
 and most religiously has it been observed ever since. On 
 St. Martin's Eve and St. Martin's Night, the loth and nth of 
 November, as soon as darkness comes on, the principal streets 
 of the town are perambulated by crowds carrying their horns 
 and lanterns. It is looked upon almost as a religious fete, and 
 is sanctioned by the authorities. Police keep the streets clear ; 
 carriages, carts, and horses are not allowed to pass during the 
 two or three hours that it prevails ; and, in short, every con- 
 sideration gives way to the horns and lanterns on St. Martin's 
 Eve and Night. 
 
 It was a strange coincidence that had taken thither Mrs. St. 
 John ; one of those inexplicable things that we cannot explain, 
 only wonder at. The women, their number augmented by two 
 of the Flemish maid-servants, remained at the window, enduring 
 the din, admiring some particularly tasty church or castle ; 
 laughing at others that took fire, to the intense irritation of 
 their bearers. In the midst of this. Prance suddenly bethought 
 herself of her mistress, and hastened into the adjoining room. 
 
 A sharp cry from Prance summoned Nurse Brayford. Their 
 lady was lying on the floor, to all appearance insensible. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 MRS. BRAYFORD's BELIEF. 
 
 The deceitful improvement in the state of Adeline de Castella 
 still continued. Herself alone (and perhaps the medical 
 faculty) saw it for what it was — a temporary flickering up of 
 the life-flame before going out. Now and then she would 
 drop a word which betrayed her own convictions, and they did 
 not like to hear it. 
 
 Rose had put on her mourning, as slight as was consistent 
 with any sort of decency ; but she heard few particulars of the 
 last days of the little heir, except that he died at Ypres, and
 
 MRS. BRAYFORD'S BELIEF. 333 
 
 was buried there. " Ypres ! of all the places in the world ! " 
 ejaculated Rose, in astonishment. Mrs. St. John had gone to 
 England, but not to Alnwick. Alnwick had passed into the 
 hands of the other branch — the St. Johns of Castle Wafer. 
 
 " What a miserable succession of misfortunes ! " mused Rose, 
 one day, upon reading a letter from her mother. " All Char- 
 lotte's grandeur gone from her ! First her husband, then the 
 little stepson, next her own boy, and now Alnwick." 
 
 " Has she nothing left ? " asked Adeline. " No fortune ? " 
 
 " Just a pittance, I suppose," rejoined Rose. " About as 
 adequate a sum to keep up the state suited to the widow of 
 George St. John of Alnwick, as five pounds a year would be to 
 find me in bonnets. There was something said about George 
 St. John's not being able to make a settlement at the time of 
 the marriage. Most of his money had come to him through 
 his first wife, and his large fortune in prospective has not yet 
 fallen in." 
 
 "Will it fall to your sister? " 
 
 "Not now. It passes on to Isaac St. John. How rich 
 he'll be, that man ! " 
 
 Adeline was looking so well. She sat at the table, writing a 
 note to one of the girls at Madame de Nino's. Her dress was 
 of purple silk ; its open lace cuffs, of delicate texture, shading 
 her wrists ; its white collar, of" the same, falling back from her 
 ivory throat. And the face was so lovely still ! with its delicate 
 bloom, and its rich dark eyes. Madame de Castella came in. 
 
 " Adeline, that English nurse is downstairs — the one who 
 nursed you in the spring," she said. " Would you like to see 
 her?" 
 
 " What, Nurse Brayford ! " exclaimed Rose, starting up. *' / 
 should like to see her. I shall hear about little Georgy St. 
 John." 
 
 " Stay a minute, Rose," said Madame de Castella, laying her 
 hand upon the impulsive girl. " Adeline, this person is very 
 skilful ; her judicious treatment did you a great deal of good 
 in the spring. I feel inclined to ask her to come here now for 
 a week." 
 
 Adeline looked up from her writing, the faint colour in her 
 cheeks becoming a shade brighter. 
 
 " Surely, mamma, you do not think I require two nurses ! 
 It has seemed to me of late that the one already here is 
 superfluous."
 
 334 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " My dear child ! don't suppose I wish her to come here as 
 a nurse. Only for a few days, my child ! it would be the 
 greatest satisfaction to me. I'll say a word of explanation to 
 the garde," added Madame, " or we shall make her jealous. 
 These nurses can be very disagreeable in a house, if put out." 
 
 She rang the bell as she spoke, and Rose made her escape, 
 finding Mrs. Brayford in one of the downstairs rooms. Rose, 
 a very Eve of curiosity, liking to know every one's business, 
 whether it concerned her or not, as her mother did before her, 
 poured out question upon question. Mrs. Brayford, not having 
 the slightest objection to answer, told all she knew. Rose was 
 rather indignant upon one point : why had they left the poor 
 little fellow at Ypres ? Why was he not taken to Alnwick ? 
 The nurse could not tell : Prance had been surprised too. She 
 supposed Mrs. St. John was too much absorbed by grief to 
 think of it." 
 
 "Does Charlotte — does Mrs. St. John feel it very much?" 
 asked Rose. 
 
 " Oh, miss ! my firm belief is, that " — the woman stopped, 
 glanced over her shoulder to see that they were alone, and 
 lowered her voice to a whisper — " the sorrow has turned lier 
 brain." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " uttered Rose, after a pause. " You don't 
 mean it ! " 
 
 "It's the truth, Miss Darling, I'm afraid. She was always 
 having visions of — did you know, miss, that the eldest little 
 boy died through an accident, a paper church taking fire that 
 his nursemaid had left him alone with ? " 
 
 "Of course I know it," replied Rose. "That nursemaid 
 ought to have been transported for life ! " 
 
 " Well, miss, poor Mrs. St. John used to fancy that she saw 
 the boy with his lighted church. I heard of this first from 
 little George ; but after his death she was worse, and I wit- 
 nessed one of these attacks myself She seemed to have an 
 awful dread of the vision. If '""^r brain's not affected, my 
 name's not Nancy Brayford." 
 
 " I never heard of such a thing," cried Rose. " Fancies she 
 sees Oh, it can't be." 
 
 " It is, miss. I've not time to tell you now, excepting just 
 the heads, but we had such a curious thing happen. At the 
 last place we stopped at, where Mrs. St. John went to take the 
 steamer direct for London, there was a street show at night,
 
 MRS. BRAYFORD'S BELIEF. 335 
 
 consisting of these very churches and lanterns, all lighted up 
 and carried about on poles. It's their way of keeping St. 
 Martin's Eve ; and I don't say it wasn't pretty enough, but of 
 all the noises ever heard, which was caused by about a thousand 
 horns, all being blowed together, that was the worst. We 
 found Mrs. St. John on the floor in her room in a sort of fit ; 
 and when she came to, she said the wildest things— about 
 having, or not having, we couldn't make it out, set fire herself 
 to the child. She was as mad that night, Miss Darling, as 
 anybody ever was. The sight of the lighted things had put 
 the finishing touch to her brain." 
 
 Rose hardly knew whether to recoil in fear, or to laugh in 
 derision. The tale sounded very strange to her ear. 
 
 " Prance was frightened, for once," went on the woman, 
 '' and it's not a little that can frighten her — as perhaps you 
 know, miss. She telegraphed to Mrs. Darling, and we got 
 Mrs. St. John on board the London boat — which was starting 
 at three in the morning. Slie was calm then, from exhaustion, 
 and seemingly sensible. Prance brought her up one or two 
 of the lanterns and a horn to show^ her that they were real 
 things and quite harmless." 
 
 " She is very well, now," said Rose. " I had a letter from 
 mamma this morning ; and she says how glad she is that 
 Charlotte is recovering her spirits." 
 
 " Ah, well, miss, Pm rejoiced to hear it," was the answer, its 
 tone one of unmistakable disbelief " I hope she'll keep so. 
 But that she was mad in the brain then, I could take my 
 affidavit upon. Bless you, miss, Pve seen a great deal of it : 
 the notions that some sick people take up passes belief. Pve 
 know^n 'em fancy themselves murderers and many other things 
 that's bad, — delicate ladies, too, who had never done a wrong 
 thing in their lives." 
 
 " My sister was always so very calm." 
 
 " And so she was throughout, except at odd moments ; 
 quite unnaturally calm. She — but Pll tell you more about it 
 another opportunity. Miss Darling," broke off the woman, as 
 Madame de Castella entered the room. " It's no disparage- 
 ment to the poor young lady — and she is young : sick folks are 
 not accountable for the freaks their minds take." 
 
 Rose returned a slightmg answer, as if the words had made 
 little impression on her. But as the hours went on, she some- 
 how could not get rid of their remembrance ; they seemed to
 
 336 ST, MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 grow deeper and deeper. What a horrible thing if the woman 
 were right ! if the grief and trouble should have turned 
 Charlotte's brain ! 
 
 Extract from Miss Carr's Diary. 
 
 Dec. loth. — Oh this deceitful disease ! all the dreadful 
 weakness has returned. Adeline cannot go downstairs now. 
 She just comes from her chamber into the front room, and lies 
 on the sofa the best part of the day. Madame de Castella, 
 who fully believed in the amendment, giving way more than 
 any one of us to the false hopes it excited, is nearly beside her- 
 self with grief and despair. She is perpetually reproaching 
 herself for allowing Nurse Brayford to leave. The woman 
 stayed here for a few days, but Adeline was so well it seemed a 
 farce to keep her, and now she has taken another place and 
 cannot return. I am glad she's gone, for my part. She could 
 not do Adeline the slightest good, and she and the garde kept 
 up an incessant chatter in strange French. Brayford's French 
 was something curious to listen to : ' Le feu est sorti,' she 
 said one day, and sent Rose into a screaming fit. Signor de 
 Castella we rarely see, except at dinner ; now and then at the 
 second dejeuner; but he is mostly shut up in his cabinet. Is 
 it that the sight of his fading child is more than he can bear ? 
 Cold and reserved as he has always been, there's no doubt 
 that he loves Adeline with the deepest love. 
 
 15//;. — Five days, and Adeline not out of her bedroom ! 
 The cough has come back again, and the doctors say she must 
 have taken cold. I don't see how she could ; but Dr. Dorre's 
 as cross as can be over it. 
 
 A fancy has taken her these last few days to hear Rose sing 
 English songs. On the first evening. Rose was in the front 
 room, the intervening door being open, singing in a sweet, low 
 voice to amuse herself; but Adeline listened and asked for 
 more. More songs, only they must be English. 
 
 " I think I have come to the end of my stock," answered 
 Rose ; " that is, all I can remember. Stay ! — what was that 
 long song so much in request this year at school ? Do you 
 remember the words, Mary Carr ? " 
 
 " How am I to know what song you mean ? " I asked. 
 
 "Some of us set it to music, — a low, soft chant. Last 
 spring it was, after Adeline had left. You must remember it.
 
 AIRS. BRAYFORD'S BELIEF. 337 
 
 It was strummed over for everlasting weeks by the whole set 
 of us. It begins thus," added Rose, striking a few chords. 
 
 I recollected then. They were lines we saw in a book 
 belonging to that Emma Mowbray, an old, torn magazine, 
 which had neither covers nor title-page. Some of the girls 
 took a violent fancy to them, and somebody — Janet Duff, was 
 it? — set them to music. 
 
 " I have it," cried Rose, striking boldly into the song. Nearly 
 with the first words Adeline rose into a sitting posture, her eyes 
 strained in the direction of Rose though she could not see her, 
 and eagerly listening. 
 
 " When woman's eye grows dim, 
 
 And her cheek paleth ; 
 When fades the beautiful, 
 
 Then man's love faileth. 
 He sits not beside her chair, 
 
 Clasps not her fingers, 
 Entwines not the damp hair 
 
 That o'er her brow lingers. 
 
 " He comes but a moment in, 
 
 Though her eye lightens, 
 Though the hectic flush 
 
 Feverishly heightens. 
 He stays but a moment near, 
 
 While that flush fadeth ; 
 Though disappointment's tear 
 
 Her dim eye shadeth. 
 
 " He goes from her chamber, straight 
 
 Into life's jostle : 
 He meets, at the very gate, 
 
 Business and bustle. 
 He thinks not of her, within, 
 
 Silently sighing ; 
 He forgets, in that noisy din. 
 
 That she is dying." 
 
 " There is another verse," I called out, for Rose had ceased. 
 
 " I know- there is," she said, " but I cannot recollect it. 
 Only its purport ! " 
 
 " Try, try," exclaimed Adeline ; " sing it all." 
 
 Rose looked round, astonished at the anxious tone, as was I. 
 What was the matter with her ? — she who never took interest 
 in anything. 
 
 " Mary Carr," said Rose, " do you recollect the last verse ? " 
 
 " Not a word of it." 
 
 Rose struck the notes of the chant upon the piano, murmur- 
 ing some words to herself and stopping now and then. 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. ^'■^
 
 338 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Presently she burst out, something after the manner of an 
 improvisatrice — 
 
 "And when the last scene's o'er, 
 
 And cold, cold her cheek, 
 His mind's then all despair, 
 
 And his heart like to break. 
 But, a few months on, — 
 
 His constancy to prove — 
 He forgets her who is gone, 
 
 And seeks another love." 
 
 " They are not exactly the original words," said Rose, " but 
 they will do." 
 
 "They will do, they will do," murmured Adeline, falling 
 back on the sofa. " Sing it all again, Rose." 
 
 And every evening since has this song been sung two or 
 three times to please her. What is it she sees in it ? 
 
 22,rd. — I fear the day of life is about to close for Adeline. 
 All the ominous symptoms of the disease have returned : pain 
 oppresses her continually, and now she experiences a difficulty 
 in breathing. Ah, Mr. St. John, if you were to come now and 
 comfort her with all your love, as of yore, you could not restore 
 her to health, or prolong her life by one single day. How 
 strange it is we never hear of him ! Is he in London ? — is he at 
 Castle Wafer ? — is he abroad ? — where is he ? 
 
 26th. — It is astonishing that Madame de Castella continues 
 to cheat herself as to Adeline's state — or, rather, tnake believe to 
 cheat herself^ as the children do at their play. She was deter- 
 mined there should be only one dinner-table yesterday, Christ- 
 mas Day ; so it was laid in the drawing-room, and Adeline 
 went in, the nurse and Louise making a show of dressing her 
 up for it. But all the dress, and the dinner, and the ceremony, 
 could not conceal the truth — that she was dying. Madame de 
 Castella was in most wretched spirits ; her silent tears fell, in 
 spite of her efforts, with every morsel she put into her mouth. 
 The Signor was gloomy and reserved ; latterly he had never 
 been otherwise. Had it not been for Rose, there would have 
 been no attempt at conversation ; but Rose, with all her faults, 
 is a downright treasure in a house, always gay and cheerful. 
 We gathered round the fire after dinner, Rose cracking filberts 
 for us all. 
 
 " Do you remember our Christmas dinner last year ? " she 
 said to Adeline. 
 
 " At Madame de Nino's ? Quite well."
 
 MRS. BRAYFORD'S BELIEF. 339 
 
 " And our sly draw at night at Janet Duffs cards, and the 
 French marigold falling, as usual, to you ? " 
 
 Adeline answered by a faint gesture, it may have been of 
 assent, it may have been of denial, and Rose bit her repentant 
 tongue. She had spoken without reflection : does she ever 
 speak with it ? 
 
 29//;. — A dark, murky day has this been, but one of event 
 for Adeline. The lights were brought in early in the after- 
 noon, for Rose was reading to her, and it grew too dusk to 
 see. It was the second volume of a new English novel, and 
 Rose was so deeply interested in it, that when Susanne came 
 in with a letter for her, she told her to "put it down anywhere," 
 and read on. 
 
 " Not so," said Adeline, looking eagerly up ; " open your 
 letter first. Who is it from ? " 
 
 " From Mary Anne, of course : Margaret never writes to 
 me, and mamma but seldom," replied Rose, breaking the seal. 
 And, not to lose time, she read it out at once. Mrs. Darling 
 and her family are spending Christmas with old Mrs. Darling, 
 in Berkshire. 
 
 "My dear Rose, 
 
 " We arrived here on Christmas Eve, but I have 
 found no time to write to you until now. Grandmamma is 
 breaking fast ; it is apparent to us all : she has aged much 
 in the past twelve months. She was disappointed you did not 
 make one of us, and particularly hopes you have grown steady, 
 and are endeavouring to acquire the reserve of manner essential 
 to a gentlewoman." (" Or an old maid," ejaculated Rose, in a 
 parenthesis.) " Charlotte is here : she has recovered her 
 spirits wonderfully, and is as handsome as ever. Frank joined 
 us on Christmas morning : he has only got leave for a fortnight. 
 He reports Ireland — the part he is now quartered in — as being 
 in a shocking state. For my part, I never listen to anything 
 he may have to say about such a set of savages. Frank lays 
 down the law beautifully — says he only wishes they would make 
 him Viceroy for a spell : he'd do this, and he'd do that. I 
 don't doubt he does wish it. 
 
 "In your last letter you ask about Frederick St. John " 
 
 Rose looked off, and hesitated ; but Adeline's flushed, eager 
 gaze, the parted lips, the breathless interest, told her there was 
 nothing for it but to continue. " We met him lately at one of
 
 340 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 the Dowager Revel's assemblies — very crowded it was, con- 
 sidering the season. It was whispered last year that he was 
 ruined, obliged to leave the country, and I don't know what. 
 People ought to be punished for inventing such falsehoods. 
 Instead of beving ruined, he enjoys a splendid income, and has 
 not a single debt in the world. It is reported that his brother 
 has made over to him Castle Wafer, which I should think to 
 be only a report : it may be true, though, now he has come 
 into Alnwick. He is again the shadow of Sarah Beauclerc ; at 
 least he was her shadow this evening at Lady Revel's, and 
 I should think it will inevitably be a match. I wish we knew 
 him ; but did not dare ask for an introduction, he looks so 
 haughty, and mamma was not there. Grandmamma sends her 
 love, and " 
 
 I went forward and raised Adeline on her pillows. The 
 emotion that she would have concealed was struggling with 
 her will for mastery. Once more the burning red spot we 
 thought gone for ever shone on her hollow cheeks, and her 
 hands were fighting with the air, and the breath had stopped. 
 
 " Oh, Adeline ! " cried Rose, pushing me aside without cere- 
 mony, " forgive, forgive me ! Indeed I did not know what 
 there was in the letter until I had entered upon the words : I 
 did not know his name was mentioned. What is to be done, 
 Mary? this excitement is enough to kill her. La garde, la 
 garde !" called out Rose in terror; "que faut-il faire. Made- 
 moiselle se trouve malade ! " 
 
 The nurse, who was in the next room, glided up with a 
 rapid step ; but, in regaining her breath, Adeline's self-posses- 
 sion returned to her. "It is nothing," she panted; "only a 
 spasm." And down she sank on her pillow, whispering for 
 them to remove the lights. 
 
 " Into the next room — for a little while — they hurt my 
 eyes." 
 
 The nurse went out with the tapers, one in each hand, and 
 I knelt down by the sofa. 
 
 " What of your deductions now, Mary ? " she whispered, after 
 a while, referring to a former conversation. " He is with his 
 early love, and I am here, dying." 
 
 "Adeline," I said, "have you no wish to see him again? 
 Did I do wrong in asking it ? " 
 
 She turned her face to the wall and did not answer. 
 
 " I know that you parted in anger, but it all seems to me a
 
 MRS. BRAYFORD'S BELIEF. 341 
 
 great mystery. Whatever cause he may have had for estrang- 
 ing himself, I did not think Mr. St. John was one to forsake 
 you in this heartless way, with the grave so near." 
 
 "He forsook me in health," she said, and her voice now had 
 assumed that hollow tone it would never lose in this world ; 
 " you might admit there was an excuse for him if you knew all. 
 But — all this time — never to make inquiry after me — never 
 to seek to know if I am dead, or living, or married to another ! 
 Whilst to hear of him, to see him, I would forfeit what life is 
 left to me." 
 
 Nezv Year's Day. — And a fearful commotion the house has 
 been in, by way of welcome. This morning Adeline was taken 
 alarmingly worse ; we thought she was dying, and doctors, 
 priests, friends and servants, jostled each other in the sick 
 chamber. The doctors gained possession, expelled us all in a 
 body, and enforced quiet. She will not die yet, they say, if 
 she is allowed tranquillity — noi for some days, perhaps weeks, 
 but will rally again. I think they are right, for she is much 
 better this evening. Adeline is nineteen to-day. This time 
 last year ! this time last year ! it was the scene and hour of her 
 brilliant ball-night. How things have changed since then ! 
 
 Yesterday . Adeline showed her hands to young Docteur 
 
 H . It has struck her as being very singular that their 
 
 nails should have turned white. It strikes me so too. He 
 seemed to intimate that it was a very uncommon occurrence, 
 but said he had seen it happen from intense anxiety of mind. 
 "Which," he added, "cannot be your case, my dear Made- 
 moiselle de Castella." Adeline hastily drew her hands under 
 the blue silk sofa cover, and spoke of something else. 
 
 Ja7i. c^th. — " Could you not wheel the chair into the other 
 room — to the window?" Adeline asked suddenly to-day. "I 
 should like to look out on the world once more." 
 
 Louise glanced round at me, and I at the nurse, not knowing 
 what to do. But the nurse made no objection, and she and 
 Louise wheeled the large chair, with as little motion as possible, 
 to one of the drawing-room windows, and then raised her up, 
 and supported her while she stood. 
 
 It was no cheering prospect that she gazed upon. A slow, 
 snuU rain was falling ; the snow, fast melting on the housetops, 
 was running down in streams of water, and patches of snow 
 lay in the streets, but they were fast turning into mud and 
 slop. Through an open space a glimpse of the distant country
 
 342 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 was obtained, and there the snow lay bleak, white, and dreary. 
 What few people were passing in the street hurried along under 
 large cotton umbrellas, some as red and round as Louise's, 
 the women with their heads tied up in blue and yellow kerchiefs. 
 " Dreary, dreary I " she murmured as she gazed ; " dreary and 
 void of hope, as my later life has been ! " 
 
 Old Madame G 's cook came out of their house with an 
 
 earthen pan, and placed it underneath the spout to catch the 
 water. 
 
 "Is that Madame G herself?" cried Adeline, watching 
 
 the movement. "Where can her two servants be?" 
 
 " It's nobody but old Nannette, with white bows in her cap," 
 said Louise, laughing. "Mademoiselle's eyes are deceiving 
 her." 
 
 " Is not that M. de Fraconville ? " resumed Adeline, pointing 
 to a gentleman who had just come in view, round the opposite 
 corner. 
 
 " Something must have taken your eyesight to-day, Adeline," 
 exclaimed Rose, who was at the other window ; " it's a head 
 and half too tall for M. de Fraconville." 
 
 "You say right," meekly sighed Adeline; "my sight is dim, 
 and looking on the white snow has rendered it more so. Take 
 me back again." 
 
 It will be her last look at out-door life. 
 ' They wheeled her into the other room, and settled her 
 comfortably on her chair, near the fire, her head on the pillows 
 and her feet on a footstool. Rose followed, and took up a 
 light work to read to her, 
 
 "Not that," said Adeline, motioning away the volume in 
 Rose's hands; it is time I had done with such. There is 
 ANOTHER Book there, Rose." 
 
 In coming in from church last Sunday, I laid my Bible and 
 Prayer-book down in Adeline's room, and forgot them. It was 
 towards these she pointed. Rose took up the Bible. 
 
 "Where shall I read?" she asked, sitting down. Adeline 
 could not tell her. The one was almost as ignorant as the 
 other. The Bible, to Adeline, has been a sealed book, and 
 R.ose never opens it but as a matter of form. Rose turned 
 over its leaves in indecision. "So many chapters!" she 
 whispered to me, pleadingly, "Tell me which to fix upon." 
 
 " Take the Prayer-book," interrupted Adeline, " and read me 
 your Service for the Burial of the Dead."
 
 LOUISE'S WHISPERED WORDS. 343 
 
 Rose found the place at once, for she knew it was close to 
 the Marriage Service, and began : 
 
 *" I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord : he that 
 believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live : and 
 whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.' " 
 
 There she stopped, for the tears were falling, and she could 
 not see the page ; and, just then, Miss de Beaufoy came into 
 the room, and saw what Rose was reading. For the first time, 
 in our hearing, she interfered, beseeching Adeline to remember 
 she was a Roman Catholic, and recommending that a priest 
 should be sent for. 
 
 "Dear Aunt Agnes," exclaimed Adeline, impressively, 
 " when you shall be as near to death as I am, you will see the 
 fallacy of these earthly differences, — how worse than useless 
 they must appear in the sight of our universal Father, of our 
 loving Saviour. There is but one heaven, and I believe it is 
 of little moment which form of worship we pursue, so that we 
 pray and strive earnestly in it to arrive there. I shall be none 
 the worse for listening to the prayers from this English book : 
 they are all truth and beauty, and they soothe me. The priests 
 will come later." 
 
 A bold avowal for a Roman Catholic, and Agnes de Beaufoy 
 crossed herself as she left the room. Rose read the Burial 
 Service to the end. 
 
 And so, existence hanging as it were upon a thread, the days 
 still struggle on. 
 
 There will be no more extracts from this young lady's diary. 
 And indeed but little more of anything; this portion of the 
 history, like Adeline's life, draws near its close. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Louise's whispered words. 
 
 You could see at a first glance that it was only a temporary 
 bed-chamber — a drawing-room converted into one, to serve 
 some special occasion. Its carpet was of unusual richness ; 
 its chairs and sofa, handsomely carved, were covered with 
 embossed purple velvet ; its window-curtains, of white flowered
 
 344 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 muslin, were surmounted by purple velvet and glittering yellow 
 cornices ; and fine paintings adorned the walls. The bed 
 alone seemed out of place. It was of plain mahogany, a 
 French bed, without curtains, and was placed in the corner 
 which made the angle between the two doors, one of which 
 opened on the corridor, the other on the adjoining room, a 
 large, magnificent drawing-room, furnished en suite with the one 
 in which the bed was. 
 
 On a couch, drawn before the fire, she lay, her sweet face 
 white and wasted. The sick-nurse sat near the sofa, and the 
 lady's-maid, Louise, was busy with the pillows of the bed. 
 Adeline was about to be moved into it, but as they were dis- 
 robing her, she suddenly fell back, apparently without life or 
 motion. 
 
 " She has fainted," screamed Louise. 
 
 " She is taken for death," whispered the nurse. 
 
 Louise flew into a fit of anger and tears, abusing the nurse 
 for her hard-hearted ideas. But the nurse was right. 
 
 " You had better summon the family. Mademoiselle Louise," 
 persisted the nurse; "they must have done dinner; and let 
 the doctors be sent to, — though they can do nothing for her, 
 poor young lady." 
 
 "She has not fainted," whispered Louise. "She is con- 
 scious." 
 
 " No, no, it is no fainting-fit," was the brief answer. " I 
 have seen more of these things than you have. She will rally 
 a litde, I dare say." 
 
 No one went to bed that night at Signor de Castella's : 
 it was a general scene of weeping, suspense, and agitation. 
 Adeline was tranquil, except for her laboured breathing. 
 
 Early in the morning, she asked to see her father. He 
 remained with her about twenty minutes, shut up with her 
 alone. Wliat passed at the interview none can tell. Did she 
 beg forgiveness for the rebellion she had unintentionally been 
 guilty of in loving one whom, perhaps, she ought not to have 
 loved? Or did he implore pardon of her, for having been 
 instrumental in condemning her to misery? None will ever 
 know. When Signor de Castella left the chamber, he passed 
 along the corridor on his way to his cabinet with his usual 
 measured, stately step ; but there were traces of emotion on 
 his face — they saw it as he strode by the drawing-room door. 
 Mary Carr opened the door between the two rooms, and went
 
 LOUISE'S WHISPERED WORDS. 345 
 
 m, knowing that Adeline was alone, and she gathered a little 
 of the interview. Adeline was sobbing wildly. She had heard 
 the last words of impassioned tenderness from her much-loved 
 father — always deeply loved by her ; tenderness that he would 
 never have given vent to in the presence of a third person, or 
 under any circumstances of less excitement : but when these 
 outwardly-cold natures are aroused, whether for anger or for 
 tenderness, their emotion is as that of the rushing whirlwind. 
 Adeline had clung round him with the feeble remnant of her 
 strength, whispering how very dear he had always been to her, 
 dearer far than he had ever suspected : and the Signor had 
 given his consent (now that it was too late) to the true facts of 
 the separation being disclosed to Frederick St. John. 
 
 The day grew later. The nurse, for the twentieth time, was 
 arranging the uneasy pillows, when Susanne went in to tell her 
 to go to dinner, taking herself the nurse's place, as she in 
 general did, during her absence. Madame de Castella, quite 
 exhausted with grief, had just gone away for a little repose. 
 Adeline, though comparatively free from pain, was restless to 
 an extreme degree, as many persons are, in dying. When not 
 dozing, and that was rare, she was never still for two minutes 
 together, and the pillows and bedclothes were continually mis- 
 placed. Scarcely had the nurse left the room, when Miss Carr 
 had to lean over her to put them straight. 
 
 " Who is that ? " inquired Adeline, in her hollow voice, her 
 face being turned to the wall. She detected, probably, the 
 difference of touch, for in this the sick are very quick. 
 
 " It is I — Mary. Nurse has gone down to her dinner." 
 
 She took Miss Carr's hand, and held it for some time in 
 silence. " I have been wanting — all day — to speak to you — 
 Mary — but I — have waited." She could say now but few 
 words consecutively. 
 
 "What is it you would say, dearest Adeline ?" 
 
 " Who is in the room? " 
 
 " Susanne. No one else." 
 
 " Tell her to go. I want you alone." 
 
 " She does not understand our language." 
 
 "Alone, alone," repeated Adeline. " Susanne." 
 
 The lady's-maid heard the call, and went to the bedside. 
 
 " Help me to turn round, Susanne. I have not strength." 
 
 With some difficulty they turned her, for they were not so 
 clever at it as the nurse. Adeline then lay looking at them, as
 
 346 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 she panted for breath. Susanne wiped the cold dew from her 
 pale forehead, and some tears from her own face. 
 
 " Leave us alone, Susanne. I have something to say to 
 Mademoiselle Carr." 
 
 "Stay in the next room, within call, Susanne," whispered 
 Miss Carr to the servant. It may seem strange, but dearly as 
 Mary Carr loved Adeline, she experienced an indescribable 
 awe at being left alone with her. She did not stay to analyze 
 the sensation, but it must have had its rise in that nameless 
 terror which, in the mind of the young, attaches itself to the 
 presence of the dead and dying. 
 
 " I am about to entrust you with a commission to him, 
 Mary," she panted. "You will faithfully execute it?" 
 
 " Faithfully and truly." 
 
 And, stretching out her white and wasted hand, she held out 
 the key of her writing-desk. " There is a secret spring in the 
 desk, on the right, as you put in your hand," she continued ; 
 " press it.'' 
 
 With some awkwardness, Mary Carr did as she was desired, 
 and several love-tokens were disclosed to view. Two or three 
 trinkets of value, a few dried flowers, and some letters, the 
 edges much worn. 
 
 " Throw the flowers in the fire," murmured Adeline, " and 
 put all the rest in a parcel, and seal it up." 
 
 "How the notes are worn, Adeline!" exclaimed Mary. 
 " One would think them twenty years old." 
 
 "Yes," she said, "until I took to my bed I carried them 
 here" touching her bosom. " They are his letters." 
 
 Miss Carr speedily made up the packet, and was about to 
 seal it. 
 
 " Not that seal," ss'.d Adeline. " Take my own ; the small 
 one, that has my initials on it. Mar}'^, do you think I could 
 direct it?" 
 
 " You direct it ! " exclaimed Miss Carr, in surprise. " I 
 don't see how." 
 
 " If you could raise me up — and hold me — it would not take 
 more than a minute. I wish to write the address myself." 
 
 " Let me call Susanne." 
 
 " No, no, I will have no one else here. Put the letter before 
 me on a book, and try and raise me." 
 
 It was accomplished after some trouble, Mary Carr was 
 nervous, and feared, besides, that the raising her up might do
 
 LOUISE'S WHISPERED WORDS. 347 
 
 some injury : but she knew not how to resist Adehne's beseech- 
 ing looks. She supported her up in bed, and held her, whilst 
 she wrote his name, "Frederick St. John." No "Mr.," no 
 " Esquire ; " and written in a straggling hand, all shakes and 
 angles, bearing not any resemblance to what Adeline's had 
 been. Mary laid her down again, and Adeline, in a few words, 
 explained the secret of their being parted, and charged her to 
 enlighten him. 
 
 " Tell him I have returned all except the ring, and that will 
 be buried with me. That it has never been off my finger since 
 he placed it there." 
 
 " What ring? " exclaimed Mary Carr, surprised, even at such 
 a moment, into curiosity. " The ring you wear is de la Chasse's 
 engagement-ring," she continued, looking down at the plain 
 circlet of gold, that was only kept on Adeline's emaciated finger 
 by the smaller guard worn to protect it. 
 
 She shook her head feebly. "Z^i? will know." 
 
 "What else, Adeline?" 
 
 " Tell him my heart will be faithful to him in death, as it 
 ever was in life. Nothing more." 
 
 "Why did you not write to him — " asked Mary Carr. "a 
 last letter?" 
 
 " He might not have cared to receive it. There is another 
 now." 
 
 The close of the afternoon came on. The nurse was sittins: 
 in her chair on one side the fireplace ; Louise silently see- 
 sawed herself backwards and forwards upon another ; Mary 
 Carr was standing, in a listless attitude, before the fire, her 
 elbow lodging on the mantelpiece; and Rose Darling sat on a 
 low stool, half asleep, her head resting against Adeline's bed. 
 They were all fatigued. In the next room were heard murmur- 
 ings of conversation : M. de Castella talking with one of the 
 medical men. Adeline, just then, was quiet, and appeared to 
 be dozing. 
 
 " I say, la garde," began Louise, in a low whisper, " is it true 
 
 that mademoiselle asked old H this morning how many 
 
 hours she should live ? " 
 
 The nurse nodded. 
 
 " Chere enfant ! " apostrophized Louise, through her tears. 
 "And what did he say?" 
 
 "What should he say ?" retorted the nurse. " He does not 
 know any more than we do."
 
 348 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 r " What do yoti think ? " 
 
 The nurse shook her head, rose from her seat, and bent over 
 the bed to look at Adeline, who was lying with her face turned 
 away. 
 
 "She sleeps, I think, nurse," observed Rose, whom the 
 movement had disturbed ; and her own eyes closed again as 
 she spoke. 
 
 " I suppose she does, mademoiselle. I can't see her face ; 
 but, if she were not asleep, she wouldn't remain so quiet." 
 
 " I heard a word dropped to-day," cried Louise, in a mys- 
 terious voice, as the nurse resumed her chair. 
 
 " What word ? " 
 
 But there Louise stopped, pursed up her mouth, and dried 
 her eyes, which, for the last fortnight or so, had been generally 
 overflowing. 
 
 " I don't know," resumed Louise. " It mayn't be true, 
 and I am sure, if it should turn out not to be, / shouldn't 
 choose to say anything about it. So I had better hold my 
 tongue." 
 
 Now the most effectual way to induce Louise no^ to hold her 
 tongue, was to exhibit no curiosity as to anything she might 
 appear disposed to communicate. The garde knew this, and 
 for that reason, probably, sat silent. After awhile, Louise 
 began again. 
 
 " But it can do no harm to mention it amongst ourselves. It 
 was Susanne told me, and of course she must have gathered it 
 from madame. She said — you are sure she's asleep?" broke 
 off Louise, looking round at the bed. 
 
 " She's asleep, fast enough," repeated the nurse ; " she is too 
 quiet to be awake." And Louise resumed, in the hushed, 
 peculiar tone she had been using ; it sounded awfully myste- 
 rious, taken in conjunction with her subject, through the space 
 of that dying room. 
 
 " Susanne thinks that mademoiselle will be exhibited." 
 
 " TV/taf ? " ejaculated the nurse, in a startled tone. 
 
 "Qu'elle sera exposee apres sa mort." (I prefer to give 
 this sentence in the language in which the conversation was 
 carried on.) 
 
 "What in the world do you mean?" demanded Rose, waking 
 up from her semi-sleep. 
 
 "That Mademoiselle Adeline will hold a reception after 
 death, mademoiselle."
 
 LOUISE'S WHISPERED WORDS. 3/19 
 
 " Louise, what do you mean ? " persisted Rose, opening her 
 eyes to their utmost width. 
 
 But Mary Carr had taken in, and understood, the full mean- 
 ing of the words ; she was more generally acquainted with 
 French manners and customs than Rose : and as her eye 
 caught the reflection of her own face in the large pier-glass, she 
 saw that it had turned of a ghastly whiteness. 
 
 " You don't follow this fashion in your country, mademoi- 
 selle, so I have learnt," whispered the nurse, addressing Rose. 
 " Neither is it kept up here as it used to be. We scarcely ever 
 meet with a case now. But I have heard my mother say — she 
 was a sage-femme, mademoiselle, as well as a garde-malade — 
 that when she was a girl there was scarcely a young gentle- 
 woman of good family, who died unmarried, but what held her 
 reception after death. And in my time, also, I have seen many 
 splendid exhibitions." 
 
 "Oh, nurse, nurse," shivered Mary Carr, "^c;/'/ talk so." 
 
 " What's the matter, mademoiselle ? " asked the woman, 
 kindly gazing at Miss Can's scared face. "You look ill." 
 
 " I feel sick," was Mary Carr's faint answer. " I cannot help 
 it. I think what you are talking of is horrible^ 
 
 " Do explain what it is you are talking of," interrupted Rose, 
 impatiently. " La garde ! what is it all ?" 
 
 " I will tell you one instance, mademoiselle," said the woman, 
 "and that will explain the rest. My aunt was housekeeper in 
 Madame Marsac's family, Madame was a widow with three 
 children, and lived in a grand old chateau near to our village. 
 The eldest, Mademoiselle Marsac, was married to an officer in 
 the army, and had gone away with him, the Saints know where, 
 but a long way off, for it was in the time of Napoleon, and we 
 were at war with half Europe then. Young Marsac, the only- 
 son, was a captain in the same regiment ; he was also away with 
 it ; and Mademoiselle Emma was the only one left at home, 
 and madame her mother doted on her. A fine, blooming young 
 lady she was, with a colour like a rose : you might have taken 
 a lease of her life. But, poor thing, she fell suddenly ill. Some 
 said she had taken cold, others thought she had eaten some- 
 thing that did her harm, but an inward inflammation came on, 
 and she was dead in a week. Madame was nearly crazed, and 
 my aunt said it was pitiful to hear her shrieks the night after 
 the death, and her prayers to the good Virgin to be taken with 
 her child. But madame's sister came to the chateau with the
 
 350 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 early light, and she forthwith gave orders that poor Mademoi- 
 selle Emma should be exhibited." 
 
 " Do go on, nurse," pleaded Rose, whose cheek was getting 
 as white as Mary Carr's, the woman having stopped, in 
 thought. 
 
 " I was but a little child then, mademoiselle, as you may 
 suppose, for it was in 1812 ; but my aunt suddenly sent for me 
 up to the chateau, to assist. They did not keep many ser- 
 vants ; my aunt had only one under her, besides the old gar- 
 dener, for Madame Marsac was not rich ; so I was put to do 
 what I could. My faith ! I shall never forget it : it was the 
 first thing of the sort I had seen. They dressed the corpse up 
 in rich white robes, as if for her bridal, with flowers and jewels, 
 and white gloves, and white satin shoes. And then she was 
 placed upright at the end of the grand salon, and all the neigh- 
 bouring people for miles round, all the rich, and as many of 
 the poor as could get admission, came to visit her. My aunt 
 slipped me into the room, and I was there for, I should think, 
 five minutes. It had the strangest effect ! That dressed-up 
 dead thing, at one end, and the live people, all dressed up in 
 their best too, and mostly looking white and awestruck, coming 
 in at the other. There was a long table going down the room, 
 and they walked once round it, looking at her as they passed, 
 and going out in silence. I don't think it was the thing, made- 
 moiselle, for that aunt of mine to send a timid young child 
 of five or so, as I was then, to see such a sight ; but she was 
 always indulgent to me, and thought it would be a treat. I 
 could scarcely keep down my terror whilst I stayed in the 
 room, and I am sure I must have looked as white and shock- 
 ing as Mam'selle Mary looks just now. I did not dare to go 
 about in the dark for long afterwards, and I could not over- 
 come the feeling for years. Though I have seen many such a 
 sight since, none have stayed upon my memory as that first did. 
 I did not seem to see much, at the time, either : I never looked, 
 but once, to — to that part of the room where the bridal robes 
 were." 
 
 " But why dress them in bridal robes ? " questioned Rose, 
 breathlessly. 
 
 " As a symbol that they are going to be the bride of Heaven. 
 At least, that is the interpretation I have always put upon it, 
 mademoiselle," answered the woman. 
 
 " The first one / ever sav/," interposed Louise, jealous that
 
 LOUISE'S WHISPERED WORDS. 351 
 
 the nurse should have all the talking, " was a young priest who 
 died at Guines. Stay — I don't think he was quite a priest, but 
 would have been one if he had lived. His name was Theodore 
 Borne. He died of an accident to his hand, and they made 
 him hold a reception after death. I have never seen but two be- 
 side him. One was the sister of the Count Plessit, a lady about 
 forty, but she had never been married ; and the other was a 
 young girl in this very town, the daughter of a couple who kept 
 a general-furnishing shop, hired out, and sold furniture, and 
 that ; and a mint of money they had made. Wasn't she dressed 
 out, that girl ! She was an only child, poor thing, and they 
 spared no money on her reception. Her veil was real Brussels; 
 and her dress was half covered with Brussels lace, and little 
 sprigs of orange-blossoms, and bows of white satin ribbon. 
 Their shop faced the market-place, and they stuck her up at 
 the window, looking down on to the Place.* It was market- 
 day, and the Place was full of people ; crowds of them, for the 
 news spread, and everybody came. It was a wet day, too. 
 Many children were frightened at the sight. Susanne had not 
 met with the custom till she came to these parts : she says they 
 never heard of it where she comes from, just beyond Paris ; at 
 least, she never did. That Theodore Borne " 
 
 At this moment, Adeline stirred. Louise's tongue stopped 
 as still as if it had been shot through, and the nurse made a 
 quiet rush to the side of the bed. She was awake, and wanted 
 her mouth moistened. 
 
 As the nurse was putting down the tea and the teaspoon, 
 Dr. Dorrd, who had been talking in the other room, came in 
 to look at Adeline before he quitted the house. She was quite 
 sensible, and said she felt easy. In the bustle of his leaving, 
 the nurse going out to attend him to the staircase, Adeline put 
 out her hand and touched Mary Carr, who was now standing 
 by the bed. Her voice was very faint, and Mary had to lean 
 close to hear. 
 
 " I — was not asleep — when Louise said — that. I heard it. 
 Mary ! do not let it be done." 
 
 Miss Carr felt much distressed. She knew not what to say. 
 
 " I — I am sure nothing will be done that you do not wish, 
 Adeline," she stammered. " I think it must have been a mis- 
 apprehension on the part of Louise. Shall I speak to Madame 
 de Castella ? " 
 
 * A fact
 
 352 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 "Not now. When I am dead — you will see if they are 
 making preparations — speak to mamma then." 
 
 " Do not let this distress you, Adeline," proceeded Mary, 
 wishing Louise had been at the bottom of the sea before she 
 had introduced so unfitting a subject in Adeline's hearing. 
 " Rely upon it, every wish of yours will be sacredly respected." 
 
 " It does not distress me," was the feeble reply. " But I 
 would rather be left in peace after death." 
 
 Madame de Castella came down, but soon went away to her 
 chamber again, for her hysterical grief disturbed Adeline ; 
 Agnes de Beaufoy remained with her sister, endeavouring, by 
 persuasions and remonstrances, to keep her there. Old 
 Madame de Beaufoy was expected ; and, a little before five, M. 
 de Castella went to the railway station to receive her. Rose 
 and Mary were in the drawing-room then, drinking some tea, 
 when the old servant, Silva, came in with a letter on a salver. 
 
 " Pour qui ! " demanded Mary. 
 
 " Pour Mademoiselle Rose Darling," responded the old 
 man. 
 
 Rose, who was sitting before the fire, her feet on the fender, 
 took the letter, without turning her head to look at it, and 
 threw it on the table. 
 
 " That worrying Mary Anne ! There's no end to her letters : 
 and they are nothing but prosy lectures of admonition. If 
 they think I am going to answer all she chooses to write, they'll 
 find their mistake. If mamma made it a condition for a 
 double allowance for me, I wouldn't do it." 
 
 " It is not your sister's handwriting," observed Mary Cam 
 
 " No ? " And Rose condescended languidly to turn her 
 eyes towards the epistle. "Why, I do believe it is from 
 Frank ! " she exclaimed, snatching it out of Mary's hand. 
 "What can he have to write about .f* Perhaps grandmamma's 
 dead, and has left us all a fortune ! But it's a red seal." 
 
 And, breaking the red seal, she skimmed hastily over it. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! how singular ! Mary ! Mary ! " 
 
 Miss Carr looked at her in wonder. Her countenance, 
 which had been pale all day with anxiety and the previous 
 night's watching, was now glowing with colour and excitement. 
 
 " He is coming to Belport. How passing strange ! Mary, 
 can it be some unknown sympathy that attracts him hither at 
 this hour ? " 
 
 " Your brother I "
 
 LOUISE'S WHISPERED WORDS. 353 
 
 " He ! Do you think his coming here could put me out like 
 this ? What a stupid you are, Mary Carr ! Do listen : — 
 
 " My dear Rose, 
 
 '■ Our dear and venerable grandmother, whom may 
 all good angels preserve — though her long life does keep us 
 an unreasonable time out of our own — entrusted me with a 
 mission concerning you upon my coming to London two 
 days ago. She had made, or purchased, or in some way 
 prepared for you, a splendid article, but whether it is intended 
 to represent a purse or a bag, I am unable to say, being, in my 
 uninitiated opinion, too large for the one, and too small for the 
 other. A magnificent affair it is, redolent of silver beads and 
 gleaming silks, and it was lined with her usual Christmas pre- 
 sent to you. Being in a generous mood myself, I slipped in 
 another lining, knowing your partiality for feathers and laces, 
 and any other sort of trumpery that costs money. This cadeaUy 
 duly prepared for transportation, and directed for you to the 
 care of Madame de Nino, I brought to town, and was to have 
 handed over to a quondam schoolfellow of yotirs, Miss Single- 
 ton, who w^as returning to Belport. Now you have frequently 
 honoured me by saying I have a head that can retain nothing, 
 and in this instance certainly the bag and the commission 
 slipped clean out of it. In packing my carpet-bag this morn- 
 ing, preparatory to starting for Ireland, for which delectable spot 
 of the globe I am bound, what should I come upon but this 
 unlucky parcel. What was to be done ? I called a hansom, 
 and galloped to Miss Singleton's address, invoking blessings 
 on my forgetfulness all the way. No result. Miss Singleton 
 and the archdeacon had started for Belport. I w-as walking 
 down Brook Street, on my return, wondering what I should do 
 with the money, and who, amongst my fair friends in Ireland, 
 would come in for the bag, when I nearly ran over Fred St. 
 John, or he over me, coming out of Mivart's. 
 
 " ' Why, where have you been buried ? ' said I. 
 
 " ' At Castle Wafer, for nearly the last month. And I am 
 off to-morrow for Paris. Any commands ? ' 
 
 " ' I should just think I had, if your route lies through 
 Belport.' And forthwith I delivered to him the unlucky parcel 
 and its history. 
 
 " So the long and short of it is. Rose, that you may expect 
 to receive your bag safe and sound. Not so sure, though, as 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. 23
 
 354 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 to the day, for St. John is proverbially uncertain in his move- 
 ments. 
 
 "I hope your friend Mademoiselle de Castella's health is 
 improving. I would beg my remembrance to her, but have no 
 doubt I have long since gone out of hers. She has my best 
 wishes for her recovery. 
 
 " Your affectionate brother, dear Rose, 
 
 •'F. Darling." 
 
 " What news for Adeline 1 Get out of the way, Mary Carr," 
 
 "Rose," said Miss Carr, in a tone of remonstrance, "it 
 will not do to tell her." 
 
 " Not tell her ! " exclaimed Rose. 
 
 " She is resigned and quiet now. Let her die in peace. 
 News of him will only excite and disturb her." 
 
 " Don't talk to me ! Let me go ! " for Mary had laid hold 
 of her dress to detain her. 
 
 " Rose, you are doing very wrong. She is almost in the 
 last agony. Earthly hopes and interests have flitted away." 
 
 " You don't understand these things," rejoined Rose, with a 
 curl upon her lip — " how should you ? Has she not for 
 months been yearning to see him — has not the pain of his cold 
 neglect, his silence, his absence, hastened her to the grave — 
 and, now that he is coming, you would keep it from her ? 
 Why, I tell you, Mary Carr, it will soothe her heart in dying." 
 
 She broke away impetuously, and went into the bed-chamber. 
 Adeline unclosed her eyes at her approach. What Rose said, 
 as she leaned over her and whispered, Mary Carr could not 
 hear ; but even in that last hour, it brought the red hectic to 
 her faded cheek. How wildly and eagerly she looked up ! 
 
 " But it is too late," she sighed, in a troubled whisper — " it 
 is too late ; I shall be gone. If he had but come a day 
 earlier ! " 
 
 She closed her eyes again, and remained silent. The next 
 words she uttered, some time afterwards, were to Miss Carr. 
 
 " Mary — you — that which Louise was saying to-day " 
 
 "Yes. I understand." 
 
 "If mamma wishes it — do not prevent it. I — I — should 
 like him to see me — the wreck I am. x\nd then he could 
 come — you would bring him." 
 
 Rose assented eagerly, before Mary Carr could speak. 
 
 "And otherwise — if he had not been here — I have been
 
 LOUISE'S WHISPERED WORDS. 355 
 
 reflecting — that it would answer no end to oppose my mother 
 — what can it matter to me, then ? If I — had a child — and 
 she died — it is possible I might wish the same. Don't inter- 
 fere. But — you will bring him ? " 
 
 " Dearest Adeline, yes," cried Rose, " if he is to be found. 
 I promise it to you solemnly," 
 
 " And now — dear friends of my girlhood, Rose ! Mary ! " 
 she breathed, holding out her hands, " 1 have but to say fare- 
 well. All things are growing dim around me. You know not 
 how grateful I have been for your care of me. You will think 
 of me sometimes in after-life." 
 
 The pause that ensued was only broken by Rose's sobs. 
 Mary Carr's aching grief was silent. 
 
 " Remember — you especially. Rose — that life — will not last 
 for ever — but — there is one beyond it ; f/iaf will. Endeavour 
 to inherit it. Will you not kiss me for the last time ? " 
 
 They leaned over her, one by one, their aching hearts beating 
 against the counterpane, the tears raining from their eyes. 
 
 " You — will — come — to me — in heaven ? " 
 
 Barely had the words left her lips — and they were the last 
 that either of them heard her utter — when Louise, with a 
 solemn face, full of mighty importance, threw the corridor 
 door wide open, and whispered something which only the 
 nurse caught. She jumped up, thrust her chair behind her, 
 and dropped down upon her knees where she stood. 
 
 " What in the world has taken her ? " ejaculated Rose. 
 
 " Don't you understand ? " was Mary's hurried answer, draw- 
 ing Rose after her, and escaping to the drawing-room. 
 
 They saw it through the open door. The line of priests, 
 in their white robes, coming up the stairs ; the silver crucifix 
 borne before them ; the " Bon Dieu " sacredly covered from 
 observation. Louise sank on her knees in the passage, as the 
 nurse had done in the room, and they swept past her with 
 solemn step, towards Adeline's chamber, looking neither to 
 the right nor left. They had come to bestow absolution, 
 according to the rights of the Roman Catholic faith — to 
 administer to her the Sacrament of the dying.
 
 3S6 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE RECEPTION OF THE DEAD. 
 
 It was a sad day to describe — that next one. Adeline had 
 died a little before midnight, fully conscious to the last, and 
 quite peaceful ; all her relatives, and they only, surrounding 
 her bed. 
 
 Not only a sad day to describe, but a strange one ; and I 
 hardly know how to do it. You may look upon its chief inci- 
 dent as a disagreeable fiction ; but it was sober fact, truthful 
 reality. Perhaps you have never met with the like in your 
 experience ? I will transcribe it for you as exactly and faith- 
 fully as I can. The anecdotes of the same nature mentioned 
 in the last chapter, were all facts too. 
 
 Louise was right : the corpse of Adeline de Castella was to 
 hold a reception. 
 
 It was rumoured in the house that Signor de Castella was 
 averse to the exhibition, but yielded the concession to his 
 broken-hearted wife. Old Madame de Beaufoy made no secret 
 of being against it ; every English idea within her revolted from 
 it. But Madame de Castella carried her point. There was 
 perhaps a negative soothing to her wild grief in the reflection 
 that before her beautiful and idolized child should be hidden 
 away for all time, the world would once more look upon her, 
 arrayed in all the pomp and splendour of life. 
 
 Early in the morning — the printers had been set to work 
 betimes — the black-bordered death-circulars went forth to 
 Belport. 
 
 " Monsieur et Madame de Castella ; Madame de Beaufoy ; 
 Mademoiselle de Beaufoy : 
 
 " Ont I'honneur de vous faire part de la perte douloureuse 
 qu'ils viennent de faire en la personne de Mademoiselle Adeline 
 Luisa de Castella, leur fille, petite fille, et niece; decedee h. 
 Belport le 8 Janvier, a I'age de 19 ans, 
 
 *' Priez pour elle." 
 
 The invitations to the reception — or it may be more correct 
 to say the intimations that it was to be held, for no invitations
 
 THE RECEPTION OF THE DEAD, 357 
 
 went out — were conveyed privately to the houses of friends by 
 one or other of the Castella servants ; by word of mouth, not 
 officially. And I can tell you that it caused a commotion in 
 the town, not forgotten yet. 
 
 It was about midday when Silva came to a little boudoir on 
 the ground-floor, tenanted by Rose and Mary only, for the 
 family kept their chambers. He said one of Madame de Nino's 
 maid-servants was asking to see Miss Darling. 
 
 " She can come in, Silva," said Rose, getting up from her 
 low chair by the fire, and passing her hand across her heavy- 
 eyes. 
 
 The woman came in — Julie. She handed a packet to Rose, 
 which the latter divined at once must be the one her brother 
 had written about. "It was left at the school for you this 
 morning, mademoiselle." 
 
 "Who left it?" asked Rose. 
 
 "A tall handsome Englishman, for I happened to answer the 
 gate myself," responded Julie. " He inquired for you, made- 
 moiselle, and when I said you were not with us now, but 
 visiting in the town, he handed in his card. You'll see it if 
 you turn the parcel, Mademoiselle Rose : I slipped it inside 
 the string for safety, coming along.'' 
 
 Rose scarcely needed to look at the card. She knew it was 
 Frederick St. John's." 
 
 " Did he say where he was staying ? — at what hotel ? " 
 
 " He said nothing else, mademoiselle, but just left the parcel 
 and card, with his compliments. Madame charged me to ask 
 you, mesdemoiselles, at what hour it would be best for her to 
 come to see the poor young lady?" continued Julie, dropping 
 her voice. 
 
 " It begins at two, JuUe. Any time between that hour and 
 five." 
 
 " I wish I might come and see her too ! " cried Julie. " I 
 think us servants who served her so long at Madame de Nino's, 
 might be allowed it." 
 
 " I dare say you might," said Rose. " Of course, you might. 
 Tell Madame I say so." 
 
 " Julie," interposed Mary Carr, " I shall see her, of course ; 
 it would be looked upon as a slight in the house if I did not ; 
 but I can tell you I would rather walk ten miles away from it." 
 
 "But think of the beautiful sight it will be, Mademoiselle 
 Carr ! " remonstrated Julie. " We hear she is to wear her real
 
 358 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 wedding-dress — to be adorned with flowers and jewels. Ah, 
 poor, poor thing ! " broke off the girl, giving way to her ready 
 tears, " But a few months ago, well and happy, and going to 
 be married ; and now, dead." 
 
 " Mary," said Rose, when they were alone, " I shall go out 
 and find him, now I know he is in the town. Will you come ? " 
 
 Mary Carr hesitated. " Would it be a proper thing, Rose, 
 for us to go about to hotels, inquiring after gentlemen ? I 
 don't much like it." 
 
 "We have to do many things in this life that we 'don't 
 like,'" was Rose's sarcastic answer. "Do you fear the hotels 
 would eat you ? " 
 . "It is «^/ the thing." 
 
 " Not for you, I dare sa}', so you can stay away : I'm sorry 
 I asked. I promised that poor girl I would bring him to see 
 her, were there any possibility of doing it; and I will." ^ 
 
 " Then I shall go with you." 
 
 " Oh," retorted^Rose. 
 
 The preparations for the great event were all but completed. 
 The preparations ! I feel nearly as ill, now that I am writing 
 it, as I felt then ; and some years have gone by. The large 
 salon, next to the room in which she died, was laid out for the 
 visitors, part of the furniture removed, and a barrier placed 
 down the middle — a space being left clear at either end. It 
 was a very long, large room, and so far suitable. She — Adeline 
 — was placed against the wall at the far end, upright, standing, 
 facing the company who were to come in, as if waiting to 
 receive them and give them welcome. I cannot tell you how 
 they fixed and supported her : I never asked then ; I would as 
 little ask now ; I knew none of the details ; the broad facts were 
 enough. 
 
 As Mary Carr went creeping upstairs to put on her bonnet, 
 she heard voices in the death-chamber, and looked in. They 
 were dressing Adeline. The French nurse was standing be- 
 fore the upright corpse, supporting it on her shoulder, her own 
 face turned aside from it ; and the hairdresser stood behind, 
 dressing the hair. Louise seemed to be helping to hold the 
 dead weight ; Susanne handed hair-pins to the man. If ever 
 there was a revolting task on earth, that seemed one ; and 
 Mary Carr turned sick as she hastily closed the door again, 
 and leaned against the wall to recover, if that might be, from 
 her faintness.
 
 THE RECEPTION OF THE DEAD. 359 
 
 " What hotel do you mean to try ? " she inquired, when slie 
 went out with Rose into the broad daylight, a welcome relief 
 from the darkened house and what was being transacted in it. 
 
 " I shall try them all in succession, until I fmd him," 
 returned Rose. " I think he must use the Hotel des Bains. 
 I know Frank does." 
 
 Rose bent her steps towards that renowned hostelry, and 
 turned boldly into the yard. A man came forward with a cloth 
 on his arm, waiter fashion. 
 
 "Monsieur de Saint John," she began, "est-il descendu 
 ici ? " 
 
 The man stammered something in wretched French, "com- 
 prenais pas," and Rose found he was a very native Englishman. 
 
 Mr. St. John was staying there, but was going on to Paris in 
 the evening. He was out just then. 
 
 " Out ! " cried Rose, not expecting this check to her im- 
 patience. " Where's he gone ? " 
 
 Of course the waiter could not say where. Rose intimated 
 that her business was of importance; that she must see him. 
 The group stood looking at each other in indecision. 
 
 " If you would like to go to his room and wait, ladies, I 
 have the key," suggested the man. " It is only on the first 
 floor." 
 
 "What is to be done, Mary Carr?" cried Rose, tapping her 
 foot in pettish annoyance. 
 
 " Don't ask me. It is your expedition, not mine." 
 
 What Rose would have done, is uncertain. She was looking 
 at the man in hesitation, perhaps thinking of the room and the 
 key, when who should turn into the yard with a light quick 
 step but Mr. St. John himself 
 
 Not changed — not a whit changed. The same high bear- 
 ing, the same distinguished form and face, the same frank 
 manners, possessing for all so irresistible a fascination. 
 
 Rose, in a somewhat confused, anything but an explanatory, 
 greeting — for she would not tell him the truth of what she 
 wanted, lest he should decline it — said she had come to request 
 him to accompany her for a short time. He answered that he 
 was at her service, and in another moment the three were 
 walking down the street together. 
 
 " Of all the sticklers for etiquette, I think Mary Carr's the 
 worst," began Rose. " I wonder she does not apply for a post 
 as maid-of-honour at court. The man asked us to go and wait
 
 36o ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 in your rooms, and I should have gone had you not come in. 
 She looked fit to faint at the bare idea." 
 
 Mr. St. John laughed ; his old low musical laugh. 
 
 " Where would have been the harm ? " went on Rose. " We 
 are cousins, you know." 
 
 " Of course we are," said Mr. St. John. " I thought you 
 both expected to have been in England before this ? " 
 ' " We shall be there shortly now. At least, I shall. Mary, 
 I believe, is going first to Holland. And you ? You are going 
 to Paris, we hear." 
 
 " Yes, but not to stay. My old roving love of travel has 
 come upon me, and I think I shall gratify it. A friend of 
 mine leaves Paris next week for a prolonged exploration of the 
 Holy Land, and I feel inclined to accompany him." 
 
 " It does not look as though he were on the point of 
 marrying Sarah Beauclerc," thought Rose to herself. For a 
 wonder, she did not put the question. 
 
 But not a word of inquiry from him after Adeline ! And 
 yet, only a few months before, they had been on the nearest 
 and dearest terms, but a few hours removed from the closest 
 tie that can exist in this world — that of man and wife. Oh, 
 the changes that take place in this transitory world of ours. 
 She was dead, sleeping well after life's fitful fever ; and he 
 was walking there in all the pomp and pride of existence, 
 haughtily indifferent, never unbending so far as to ask 
 whether she was married to another, whether she was living 
 or dead. 
 
 And so they reached the residence of Signor de Castella, 
 and entered the courtyard, St. John unconscious where he was 
 going. He had never gone to the house but once, and then it 
 was at night, and in Sir Sandy Maxwell's carriage. The hall- 
 door was placed wide open. Silva stood on one side of it, 
 bareheaded, another servant opposite to him, and as the various 
 visitors passed between them, they bowed to each group in 
 silence. It was the manner of receiving them. Mr. St. John, 
 talking with Rose, advanced close to the door ; but when he 
 caught sight of Silva, he drew back. The old man looked at 
 him with a pleasant look : St. John had always been a favourite 
 with the Castella servants. Mary Carr left them then, and ran 
 upstairs. 
 
 " Why have you brought me here? " he demanded of Rose. 
 •' This is Signor de Castella's ! "
 
 THE RECEPTION OF THE DEAD. j6i 
 
 "I have not brought you without a motive, Mr. St. John. 
 Pray come in with me." 
 
 " You must excuse me," he said, very coldly. 
 
 " I cannot," answered Rose. " Do you think I should go 
 dancing after you to the hotels, shocking Mary Carr and the 
 waiters out of their notions of propriety, without an urgent 
 motive ? Pray come along : we are obstructing the entrance." 
 
 Mr. St. John indeed saw that a group of several ladies were 
 gathered close behind him, waiting to go in. He stepped 
 inside the hall — he had no other alternative — and so allowed 
 them to pass. They moved noiselessly towards the broad stair- 
 case ; but he drew aside with Rose. 
 
 " Rose, this is beyond a joke," he said. " Why did you 
 bring me here? I will wish you good morning." 
 
 " Indeed," she murmured, clasping her agitated hands on his 
 arm, in her fear lest, after all, he should escape her, " this is no 
 joke. Do you suppose Mary Carr would lend herself to one ? 
 and she came with me. Pray come upstairs with me, Mr. St. 
 John." 
 
 " You forget," he began, in answer more to her evident 
 excitement than to her words, " that — putting aside any objec- 
 tion I may experience — my presence here may not be accept- 
 able to the family." 
 
 " You will not see the family. They are not visible to-day." 
 
 "Who are all these people going up the stairs?" he said, 
 looking on in amazement, as more groups were silently bowed 
 in by Silva. " It seems like a reception." 
 
 "It is one," said Rose: "nevertheless the family do not 
 hold it. There comes Madame de Nino ! She is directing 
 those strict eyes of hers towards us, and I shall catch a sharp 
 lecture for standing whispering with you. Do come, Mr. St. 
 
 " I cannot understand this. Rose. These visitors, flocking 
 to the house, while, you say, the family are not visible ! Why 
 do they come, then ? Why do you wish me to go up ? " 
 
 " There's — there's — a show upstairs to-day," stammered Rose 
 "That is why they come. And I want you to see it." 
 
 " A flower-show ? " said Mr. St. John, somewhat mockingly. 
 
 "A faded one," murmured Rose, as she took his hand, and 
 drew him towards the staircase. 
 
 His manner was hesitating, his step reluctant ; and but for 
 the young lady's pertinacity, which he could not resist without
 
 362 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 downright rudeness, he had certainly retreated. Invokintarily, 
 he could not tell why or wherefore, the remembrance of a past 
 scene came rushing to his mind ; when he, Frederick St. John, 
 had in like manner forced a resisting spirit up the stairs and 
 into the room of a college-boy who was dying. 
 
 At the head of the stairs they met Mary Carr, who held out 
 a small sealed packet. 
 
 "A commission was intrusted to me yesterday, Mr. St. 
 John," she said, " that I would deliver this into your own 
 hands. I have also a message " 
 
 " Which you can give him presently," interrupted Rose. 
 
 He glanced at the packet; he glanced at the seal, "A. L. de 
 C. ;" he looked at the other side, at the strange, sprawling 
 address. 
 
 " Not a very elegant superscription," he observed, carelessly, 
 as he slipped the parcel into the breast-pocket of his coat. " I 
 don't recognize the handwriting." 
 
 " Yet you were once familiar with it, Mr. St. John.' 
 
 " Oh, never ! " answered he. " Not, certainly, to my recol- 
 lection." 
 
 They were now at the door of the drawing-room. Rose, 
 feeling a sick terror at the thought of what she was going to 
 behold, laid her hand momentarily on Mr. St. John, as if 
 doubting her own capability to support herself. 
 
 " Are you ill ? " he inquired, looking at her pale face. 
 
 "A slight faintness," she murmured. " It will go off." 
 
 It was in front of them, at the other end of the room as 
 they entered. /// But they could not see it distinctly for a 
 moment together, so many persons were pushing on before 
 them. Mr. St. John, who was taller than most persons pre- 
 sent, obtained a more distinct view than Rose. 
 
 " Who is that — standing yonder — receiving the company ? " 
 
 he asked hastily. " It looks like no ; it cannot be. Is it 
 
 Adeline ? " 
 
 "Yes, it is Adeline de Castella," replied Rose, under her 
 breath, her teeth chattering. " She is holding her reception." 
 
 Adeline de Castella. Did the name strike oddly upon Mr. 
 St. John ? But if it did, hovr then came he not to ask why it 
 was not Adeline de la Chasse ? 
 
 " You have deceived me, Miss Darling," he said in severe 
 tones; "you assured me the family were not here. What 
 means all this ? "
 
 THE KECEPTION OF THE DEAD. 363 
 
 " They are not here," whispered Rose, whose face and lips 
 were now as white as those of the dead. 
 " Not here ! There stands AdeUne." 
 
 "Yes, true; AdeHne," she murmured. "But she will not 
 speak to you. You — you will pass and look at her : as we 
 look at a picture. You can't go back now, if you would : see 
 the throng. Trust me for once," she added, as she seized his 
 arm : " Adeline will not speak to you — she will not, as I live 
 and breathe." 
 
 Partly from the extreme difficulty of retreating, for they were 
 in the line of advance, not in that formed for returning accord- 
 ing to the arrangements of the room, partly in compliance with 
 Rose Darling's agitated earnestness, and pardy yielding to his 
 own curiosity, which was becoming intensely excited, Mr. St. 
 John continued his way, ever and anon catching a glimpse of 
 the rigid form opposite, before which all were filing. 
 
 " It cannot be Adeline ! " he exclaimed, involuntarily. " And 
 yet it is like her ! Who is it ? ]V/iat is it ? How strange she 
 looks ! " 
 
 " She has been ill, you see," shivered Rose, " and is much 
 attenuated. But it is Adeline." 
 
 They were nearly up with her. Rose, in her faintness, not 
 having yet dared to look at the sight, clung to the arm of Mr. 
 St. John. He was gazing on her — Adeline ; and his face, 
 never very rosy, had turned of a yet paler hue than common. 
 
 Oh, the rich and flowing robes in which they had decked 
 her I white satin, covered with costly lace ; white ribbons, 
 white flowers, everything about her white ; the festive attire of 
 a bride adorning the upright dead, and that dead worn and 
 wasted ! A narrow band of white satin was passed tightly 
 under the chin, to keep the jaw from falling, but it was partly 
 hidden by the hair and the wreath of flowers, and the veil that 
 floated behind her. Never, in health, had those beautiful 
 ringlets been seen on Adeline as they were set forth now, to 
 shade those hollow cheeks : but all the richness of her dress 
 and the flowing hair, all the flowers and the costly lace, could 
 not conceal the ghastliness of the features, or soften the fixed 
 stare of the glazed eyes. Yet, in the contour of the face, there 
 was something still inexpressibly beautiful. To a stranger 
 entering the room, unsuspecting the truth, as Mr. St. John, she 
 looked like one fearfully ill, fearfully strange : and how was 
 Mr. St. John, who had never heard of the custom, to divine
 
 364 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 the truth ? Did the idea occur to him that AdeHne was stand- 
 ing in the very spot where he had first met her, a year before, 
 when the French marigold in his button-hole was accidentally 
 caught by her? Did the strange gloomy silence strike omi- 
 nously upon him ; putting him in mind of a funeral or a lying- 
 in-state, rather than a gay reception ? 
 
 He went close up, and halted in front of her : Rose by him, 
 shaking from head to foot. Forgetting, probably, what Rose 
 had said, that she would not speak to him, or else obeying the 
 impulse of the moment, he mechanically held out his hand to 
 Adeline : but there was no answering impulse on her part. 
 
 He stood rooted to the spot, his eyes running rapidly over 
 her. They glanced down on the flounces of the rich lace 
 dress, they wandered up to her face — it was the first close, full 
 view he had obtained of it. He saw the set, rigid features, the 
 unmistakable stare of the glassy eye ; and, with a rushing 
 sensation of sickening awe and terror, the terrible truth burst 
 upon his brain. 
 
 That it was not Adeline de Castella, but her corpse which 
 stood there. 
 
 He was a strong-minded man — a man little given to betray 
 his feelings, or to suffer them to escape beyond his own con- 
 trol : yet he staggered now against the wall by her side, in 
 what seemed a fainting-fit. Rose, alarmed for the conse- 
 quences of what she had done, burst into tears, knelt down, 
 and began to rub his hands. 
 
 " " Open the windows — give some air here," called out little 
 Monsieur Durante, who had come all the way from Ostrohove 
 to see the sight. " Here's a gentleman in an attack." 
 
 " Nothing of the sort," returned an Englishman, who made 
 one of the company ; '•' he has nearly fainted, that's all. 
 There's no cause for alarm, young lady. I suppose he came 
 in, not knowing what he was going to see, and the shock 
 overpowered him. It i's an odd fashion, this. See : he revives 
 already." 
 
 Consciousness came to Mr. St. John. He rose slowly, shook 
 himself out of a shuddering-fit, and with a last wild yearning 
 glance at the dead, fell into the line of the retreaters. But it 
 was Miss Carr who now detained him : Adeline's message had 
 yet to be given. 
 
 " The address on the packet was in /ler handwriting, Mr. St. 
 John," she whispered j "she wrote it yesterday, only a few 
 
 I
 
 UNAVAILING REPENTANCE, 365 
 
 hours before she died. She charged me to say that everything 
 is there, except the ring, which has never been off her finger 
 since you placed it there, and will be buried with her ; and to 
 tell you that she had been ever faithful to you ; as in life, so 
 unto death." 
 
 Mr. St. John listened, and nodded in reply, with the 
 abstracted air of one who answers what he does not hear, 
 touching unconsciously the breast-pocket of his coat, where 
 lay the packet. 
 
 " There was something else," continued she, " but I dare not 
 venture to breathe that here. Later, perhaps ? " 
 
 Again he nodded with the same look of abstraction^ never 
 speaking ; and began to follow in the wake of the crowd, who 
 had taken their fill of gazing, and were making their way from 
 the room. 
 
 " He is a fine young man, though," exclaimed M. Durante, 
 looking after St. John with eyes of admiration. " But he is 
 very pale : he has scarcely recovered himself." 
 
 " To think that he should have dropped at seeing a corpse, 
 just as one might drop a stone, a fine strong man like him ! " 
 responded a neighbouring chemist, who had stepped in to have 
 a look at the reception. " Qu'ils sont droles, ces Anglais-la ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XXXL 
 
 UNAVAILING REPENTANCE. 
 
 Rose Darling struggled out of the room with Mr. St. John : 
 not caring to remain in it, possibly, without his sheltering 
 presence. They went downstairs with the crowd — all silent 
 and well-behaved, but still a crowd — and then Rose drew him 
 into the small snug room that had been her abiding place and 
 Mary's for the day. 
 
 Mr. St. John sat down, and leaned his head upon his hand. 
 In a shock like this, he could not make believe not to feel it, 
 or to gloss it over ; indeed he was an independent man at all 
 times, utterly refusing to give in to the false artificialities of 
 society. Rose slipped away, and brought him a glass of wine ; 
 but he shook his head, declining to take it. Mary Carr had
 
 366 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 not come with them ; it turned out afterwards that she thought 
 he had left the house. 
 
 " When did she die ? " was the first question he presently 
 asked. 
 
 *' Last night ; a few minutes before twelve." 
 
 " Just as I was stepping on board the steamer at Folke- 
 stone," he murmured to himself. "Why is she — there, Rose? 
 — dressed — in that form ? Are they mad ? " 
 
 " It is a custom they have in France, as it seems ; but I had 
 never before heard of it," answered Rose. "Flark at the 
 people passing up still ! " 
 
 A shiver of remembrance took him, but it was conquered 
 immediately. Rose untied the black string of her straw 
 bonnet, and put it on the table. 
 
 " I suppose we are both in mourning for the same person," 
 she remarked, in allusion to the narrow band of crape on his 
 hat : "litde George St. John." 
 
 "Yes," he shortly answered. " What did she die of? " 
 
 " Of consumption : at least, that is what the doctors would 
 tell you. I won't say anything about a broken heart." 
 
 Mr. St, John made no reply. Rose resumed : 
 
 " From the moment that blood-vessel burst, there has been, 
 I suppose, no real hope, no possibility of cure. But she rallied 
 so greatly, and seemed so well, that I, for one, believed in it." 
 
 He looked at Rose ; the words seemed to arouse his curi- 
 osity. " When did she burst a blood-vessel ?" 
 
 " It was at Beaufoy. It was — why, yes, it was the very day 
 you were last there, Mr. St. John, almost in your sight. You 
 remember the morning you quitted the house, and never came 
 back again ? — did you notice Adeline running down the steps 
 of the colonnade after you, imploring you to stop ? — did you 
 notice that she sank down on the grass, as if from fatigue ? " 
 
 " I think I did," he answered, in allusion to the last ques- 
 tion. " I know she followed me down the steps." 
 
 " It was then the blood-vessel broke ; through emotion, no 
 doubt. Had you but looked back once again, you might 
 have seen what was amiss. I never shall forget the sight. 
 Just at first I had thought her foot slipped and threw her down, 
 next I thought she was kneeling for a joke : but when I 
 reached her, I saw what it was. One minute longer, and you 
 would have seen the whole house gathered round her on the 
 lawn. She was got indoors, and the doctors were sent for. 
 
 i
 
 UNAVAILING REPENTANCE, 367 
 
 What a house it was ! She thought she was dying ; and 
 I beheve the chiefest wish of her heart then was to see 
 you." 
 
 " Why did you not send for me ? " 
 
 " We did send. I wrote to you, and Louise took the note 
 at once to the Lodge. But you had already gone — turning 
 Madame Baret's brains upside down with the shock." 
 
 " You might have sent it after me to England." 
 
 " Of course I might — if I had only known you were gone to 
 England. How tvas I to know it ? I might be wishing to get 
 a note to some one in the moon, but not see my way clear to 
 writing the address. It was weeks, and weeks, and weeks, Mr. 
 St. John, before we ever heard a syllable of you, whether you 
 were in England or in any other part of the known world, or 
 whether you were at the bottom of the sea." 
 
 " And she never married de la Chasse ? " 
 
 The words seemed spoken as a remark, not as a question. 
 Rose, who seemed to have a touch of one of her ironical 
 moods coming on, answered it : 
 
 " Would you have had her marry him when death had set 
 in ? After the doctors had met that day, it was known through- 
 out the house that nothing could save her. At least, they said 
 so. The old malady of the spring had but been lying dor- 
 mant ; it was in her still ; and the terrible trouble she went 
 through had brought it forth again. Under the very happiest 
 circumstances, had she married you, even — and I suppose that 
 might have been her idea of happiness," added Rose, satirically 
 — " she could not have lived long. De la Chasse saw her for 
 a few minutes on the day they were to have been married, and 
 expressed himself very -much concerned, and all that, as a 
 matter of course ; I don't suppose he broke his heart over it." 
 . " And she has been ill ever since ?" 
 
 " Ever since. The disease has fluctuated, as you may 
 imagine; some weeks she would be at death's door, some 
 weeks comparatively well ; but it has all the while been pro- 
 gressing on gradually to the ending. Frederick St. John " — 
 and Rose stepped up to him in her excitement — "I don't 
 believe you were ever absent for one minute from her mind ; 
 by day and by night it was filled with that miserable love for 
 you ; and the yearning wish, destined not to be gratified, was 
 ever upon her — that you would come and see her before she 
 died."
 
 368 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " M'7iy did you not let me know it ? — why could you not 
 have written to me?" he asked, in a sharp tone of pain. 
 
 " For one thing, I tell you, I did not know where to write. 
 For another, Adeline would not have let me. She had an idea 
 that you did not care to come to her — that you perhaps would 
 not, if summoned. And I " — Rose paused a moment, and 
 angrily compressed her repentant lips — " I could wish my 
 tongue had been bitten out for a share I took in the past. 
 There's not the least doubt that one ingredient in Adeline's 
 cup of bitterness was worse than all the rest — the thought of 
 Sarah Beauclerc." 
 
 He uttered an exclamation. 
 
 "And of your love for her. And I say I wish Sarah Beau- 
 clerc had been smothered, and I with her, if you like, before 
 I had ever breathed her name to Adeline. But for that, but 
 for deeming that s/ie was your true love, and would some time 
 be your wife, Adeline would have sent to the far ends of the 
 earth after you for a parting interview." 
 
 He sat, leaning his head upon his fingers, looking into the 
 fire. 
 
 " What a miserable business it seems altogether ! Nothing 
 but cross-purposes, the one with the other. Sarah Beauclerc ! " 
 
 "Are you still engaged — perhaps at a moment like this I 
 may be pardoned for asking it — to Sarah Beauclerc ? " 
 
 " I never was engaged to Sarah Beauclerc. I had once a 
 sort of passing fancy for her ; I don't know that it was more. 
 I have had no thought of her, or of any one else, since I parted 
 from Adeline." 
 
 " In a letter I had from London, not very long ago," resumed 
 Rose, slowly, "your name was coupled with Miss Sarah Beau- 
 clerc's. It said you were her shadow." 
 
 "Who said it?" 
 
 " Never mind. It was a lady." 
 
 " Your correspondent laboured under a mistake. Rose ; you 
 may tell her so, for her satisfaction. Sarah Beauclerc will very 
 soon be a wife, but not mine." 
 
 " Who is she going to marry ? " 
 ■ " Lord Raynor." 
 
 Rose exhausted her surprise in ejaculations. She had thought 
 Sarah Beauclerc would be Frederick St. John's chosen wfe ; 
 had felt utterly certain of it in her own mind. He sat in 
 silence, never heeding her. Remembrances of the past were
 
 UNAVAILING REPENTANCE. 369 
 
 crowding upon him. That he had been very near loving Sarah 
 Beauclerc, was indisputable : and but for the meeting with 
 AdeUne, this might have come to fruition : there was no know- 
 ing now. At Lady Revel's — the evening spoken of to Rose by 
 Miss Mary Anne Darling — he had learnt that she, Sarah, was 
 going to be married to the Viscount Raynor, a man who, as 
 Captain Budd, had been attached to her for years. She herself 
 told him of this. In her calm, cold, cutting manner, she spoke 
 of his contemplated marriage to Mademoiselle de Castella : 
 was any covert reproof intended in this ? any secret intima- 
 tion that that justified her own engagement ? However that 
 might be, all chance of their being one in this world, had any 
 such chance ever existed, was at an end ; and Frederick St. 
 John had no regret left in regard to it. All his regrets were 
 for another. 
 
 " If Adeline had but known it ! " murmured Rose, genuine 
 tears of vexation filling her eyes. " Did you not know she was 
 dying, Mr. St. John ? " 
 
 " No. I knew nothing about her." 
 
 " Have you been in England ever since you quitted us that 
 day?" 
 
 " I went straight to London from Beaufoy, saw my brother 
 Isaac, explained matters to him, and then accompanied him to 
 Castle Wafer. Subsequently I went to Scotland, deer-stalking; 
 running over once to London from thence, to see my mother. 
 Before Christmas, I was again for a week in London, and then 
 I escorted my mother to Castle Wafer. Now you know what 
 my movements have been. Rose. I heard nothing of Adeline." 
 
 " Perhaps you kept yourself out of the way of hearing of 
 her?" 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " That was your temper ! " 
 
 "Just so. Our faults generally bring their own punishment." 
 
 "We heard you were in an awful passion at Madame 
 Baret's," remarked Rose, who plunged into things irrelevant 
 without mercy. 
 
 " I thought I had cause to be. I thought so then. I do not 
 know the reason now why she rejected me." 
 
 " Mary Carr will tell you that. Ill-fated Adeline ! She would 
 have given her poor life to have been allowed to whisper it to 
 you then, to justify herself in your eyes. The fact is," added 
 Rose, after a pause, "the Church interfered to prevent the 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. 24
 
 370 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 marriage, and Adeline was sworn to silence on the crucifix, 
 /did not know it until to-day. She thought of you until the 
 last, Mr. St. John, and in her dying moments got permission 
 from her father for the truth to be disclosed to you. Mary was 
 charged with it." 
 
 Mr. St. John's eyes blazed up with an angry light. "Then 
 I know that was the work of Father Marc ! " 
 
 " I dare say it was. He was very fond of Adeline, and no 
 doubt thought her marriage with a heretic would be perdition 
 here and hereafter. I don't see that you can blame him : you 
 would have done the same in his place, had you been true to 
 your creed. Father Marc's one of the best gossipers living. 
 We saw a great deal of him in Adeline's sick-room, after you 
 left. I fell in love with the charming old pere." 
 
 Would she ever be serious ! The question might have 
 crossed Mr. St. John at a less bitter moment. 
 
 "And I think his gossip did Adeline good," continued Rose. 
 " It was a sort of break to her misery. How could you have 
 doubted her — have doubted for a single moment, whatever your 
 passionate rage might have been, that her whole love was 
 yours ? " 
 
 How indeed? But perhaps in his inmost heart he never had 
 doubted it. He sat there now, bearing the bitter weight of 
 remembrance as he best might, his eyes looking back into the 
 past, his delicate lips drawn in to pain. 
 
 " They have no portrait of her," went on Rose, not in her 
 mercilessness, but in her giddy, gossiping lightness. " And the 
 one you took of her, you defaced." 
 
 " Don't, Rose ! " 
 
 The words came from him with a wail. His remorse wanted 
 no feeding ; it was aheady as great as he well knew how to 
 bear. Rose was not quite without feeling, and the words and 
 their tone checked her. She sat thinking how unkind she had 
 been, and began jflirting the strings of her bonnet about, as it 
 lay near her on the table. 
 
 But it was not in her nature to remain silent long. Some- 
 thing, perhaps the black ribbon, took her thoughts to another 
 subject : and in truth she did not like to say more of Adeline. 
 
 " Does it not seem like a fatality? All three of them to have 
 died, one after the other ! " 
 
 Mr. St. John came slowly out of his pain, and looked at her 
 for an explanation. " Three of whom ? "
 
 UNAVAILING REPENTANCE. 371 
 
 " Oh, I was thinking of Alnwick. Mr. Carleton St. John first 
 and then his two boys. I suppose you have inherited ? " 
 
 " M-y brother has. Yes, it is a very sad thing. Quite a 
 fatahty, as you say." 
 
 " What fortune has Charlotte now ? Much ? " 
 
 " I really do not know. I fear not much." 
 
 '' She reckoned so surely — I know she did — upon being Lady 
 St. John ! " 
 
 ."That seems to be a chief portion of life's business, I think," 
 he remarked : " the reckoning upon things that never come to 
 pass." 
 
 " I suppose you have not seen her since ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Carleton St. John ? Yes, I have. I heard she was 
 staying with Mrs. Darling in town, the week I spent there 
 before Christmas, and I called." 
 
 " How was she looking ? How did she seem ? " asked Rose, 
 rather eagerly. 
 
 " She seemed quite well, and she looked well. Very thin : 
 but in good health and spirits." 
 
 "There was no — excitement in her manner, was there?" 
 
 "On the contrary. She struck me as being one of the 
 calmest, quietest-mannered women I ever saw." 
 
 *' Did you think her pretty ? " 
 
 "No. I thought her handsome." 
 
 " What did mamma say to you about me ? — and Margaret 
 and Mary Anne ? No good, I know. They are always abusing 
 me." 
 
 " I did not see them. Mrs. Carleton St. John said they had 
 all gone out to call on some old friend." 
 
 " You had no loss. Mamma you know ; I don't say anything 
 against her, though it was a shame of her to keep me at school 
 so long ; but Mary Anne and Margaret are the primmest old 
 creatures you can picture. Why, they are going on for thirty ! 
 I sent them over a cap apiece the other day, in return for a 
 little interference of theirs. Lottie Singleton took the parcel. 
 Didn't it make them wild ! " 
 
 A faint smile parted his lips. 
 
 " Where is Charlotte going to live ? " resumed Rose. " Have 
 you heard ? " 
 
 " I have heard nothing. I believe my brother wrote to beg 
 of her to go back to Alnwick, and remain there as long as she 
 chose. But she declined."
 
 372 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 "I know one thing — that I hope she'll not live with us," 
 cried Rose, tossing back her golden curls. " Charlotte always 
 
 was so domineering, and now — especially You are sure 
 
 you observed no undue excitement of manner? " she broke off, 
 after a pause. 
 
 " Why do you ask it ? To me she appeared to be almost 
 unnaturally calm." 
 
 "I think I'll tell you why," said thoughtless Rose. And 
 forthwith she disclosed to Mr. St. John all she had heard from 
 Nurse Brayford. It was lamentably imprudent of her, without 
 doubt ; but she meant no harm. And the notion she herself 
 had gathered from the story was, that the trouble had temporarily 
 touched Charlotte's brain, just as a passing fever will touch it. 
 That was all the real thought of her heart ; but her expressions 
 were exaggerated as usual, meaning less than they implied. 
 It had the effect of fully arousing Frederick St. John from his 
 own care : and Rose was surprised to see him make so much 
 of it. 
 
 " That Charlotte — that your sister at the time of the child's 
 death was ?nadr' he repeated. " Surely not. Rose ! " 
 
 " It was nothing less. How else could she fancy she saw all 
 sorts of visions of the child? Not her child; I don't mean 
 him : the little heir, Benja. He was always walking before her 
 with the lighted toy, the church ; the one that caused his death, 
 you know. She had awful fits of this terror, frightening Georgy 
 nearly to death," 
 
 Mr. St. John made no reply. His eyes were fixed on Rose, 
 and he was revolving what she said. 
 
 " It was Mrs. Brayford told me this ; the nurse who was with 
 Adeline in the spring. You heard that she had gone from 
 Belport with Mrs. Carleton St. John to watch George. But I 
 don't think the woman told me quite all," added Rose, casting 
 her thoughts back : " she seemed to reserve something. At 
 least, so it struck me." 
 
 " It must have been a sort of brain fever," remarked Mr. St. 
 John. 
 
 " It must have been downright madness," returned Rose. 
 " They hold a curious custom, it seems, in one of the towns of 
 France : on St. Martin's Eve every one turns out at night with 
 horns and lighted paper lanterns, which they parade about the 
 streets for a couple of hours. It happened that Charlotte was 
 there this very night : she had gone to the town to take the
 
 UNAVAILING REPENTANCE. 373 
 
 steamer for London. The Lmterns were of various forms and 
 devices, many of them being churches ; and Charlotte was in 
 her room when the show began, and saw it all. She had a sort 
 of fit from terror," continued Rose in a whisper. " She was 
 quite mad when she came to, fancying it was a thousand Benjas 
 coming after her to torment her. Prance had always locked 
 Brayford out of the room before, when these attacks came on ; 
 but she couldn't do it that night, for Charlotte had to be held ; 
 she was raving." 
 
 " It is very strange," said Mr. St. John. 
 
 "That is why I asked you whether you saw anything unusual 
 in her manner, — any excitement. Of course I can't write and 
 ask ; I can't hint at it. They say Charlotte is well, but if she 
 were not I know they would never tell me, and I like to be 
 at the top and bottom of everything. I'm mamma's true 
 daughter for that." 
 
 " Rose, I wish you had not told me this." 
 
 " Why ? " exclaimed Rose, opening her eyes very wide. 
 
 He seemed to have spoken involuntarily. The retort and 
 its surprised tone woke him from his dream, and all his senses 
 were in full play again. 
 
 "It is not pleasant to hear of women suffering. I can't bear 
 it. Your sister must have gone through a great deal." 
 
 " Oh, poor thing, yes she must. I'll not call her hard names 
 again. And I do hope and trust the brain trouble has really 
 left her." 
 
 " She seemed quite well. I saw no trace whatever of the 
 mind's being affected. It must have been a sort of temporary 
 fever. Rose, were I you, I think I would never talk of this." 
 
 *' I don't. I only said it to you. I assure you I wouldn't 
 say a word of it to mamma to be made Empress to-morrow. 
 She'd box my ears for me, as she used to do when I was a little 
 girl." 
 
 Mr. St. John rose to leave. "There's nothing more you 
 have to say, Rose ? " 
 
 She knew as well as he that he alluded to Adeline. " There 
 was nothing more, just then," she answered. " Mary Carr 
 would, no doubt, see him later." 
 
 He shook hands with Rose and was leaving the room, when 
 Miss Carr came in. She uttered an exclamation of surprise. 
 
 " I thought you had gone," she said. " Will you come with 
 me and see old Madame de Beaufoy? I was in her room just
 
 574 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 now, and told her you had been here ; she thought I ought to 
 have taken you up to her ; and she cried when she said how 
 great a favourite you had been in those happy days, now gone 
 by for ever." 
 
 With some hesitation — for he did not care to see the family 
 again, especially on that day — Mr. St. John suffered himself to 
 be conducted to her room. The show people were still silently 
 jostling each other on the staircase, passing up and down it. 
 
 Madame de Beaufoy was in her chamber : it is the custom 
 you know to receive visitors in the bed-chambers in France : a 
 handsomely furnished room, the counterpane a blue satin, 
 richly quilted, and the large square pillows, lying on it, of the 
 finest cambric edged with choice Mechlin lace. As she held 
 Mr. St. John's hand in greeting and drew him to the fire, the 
 tears coursed freely down the fine old face. 
 
 " Ah, my friend, my friend ! " she said, speaking in English, 
 "if they had but suffered her to marry you, she might not be 
 lying low this day. A hundred times I have said to Maria, 
 that she should not have been severed from Frederick St. John. 
 But Maria, poor thing, had no hand in it; she is not a devote; 
 it was the Church that did it. And we must suppose all's for 
 the best, though it sacrificed her." 
 
 No tears shone in his eyes, his grief was too deep for that. 
 It could be read in every line of his face, of his rigid features. 
 
 " I wish to Heaven things had been allowed^to take a different 
 course," he answered in low tones. " But they tell me that no 
 care, no amount of happiness could have saved her." 
 
 " Tush ! " returned the old lady. " The greatest mistake they 
 made was in not taking her to a warmer climate while they 
 had the opportunity. Had that been done, and had you been 
 allowed to marry her, she might have enjoyed years of life. I 
 don't say she could have lived to be old : they insist upon it 
 that she could not : but she would have had some enjoyment 
 of this world, poor child, and not have been cut off from it, as 
 she is now." 
 
 The thought crossed him — and it came in spite of his regrets, 
 and he could not help it — that all things might still be for the 
 best. Had she lived to bear him children — and to entail upon 
 them her fragility of constitution 
 
 "You did love her, Mr. St. John." 
 
 "With my whole heart and soul." 
 
 "Ay, ay; and she was bound up in you. I don't see why
 
 UNAVAILING REPENTANCE. 375 
 
 you should have been parted — and we all liked you. For my 
 part," continued the tolerant old lady — "but you know it 
 doesn't do to avow such sentiments to the world — I think one 
 religion is as good as another, provided people do their duty in 
 it. She had as sure a chance of going to heaven as your wife, 
 as she had if she had married that de la Chasse, whom I never 
 liked." 
 
 " Indeed I trust so." 
 
 " I became a Roman Catholic to please my husband and his 
 family, but I was just as near to heaven when I was a Protestant. 
 And I say that Adeline need not have been sacrificed. You 
 have been in to see her, I hear." 
 
 " Yes. Not knowing what I was going to see." 
 
 " Was ever such a barbarous custom heard of ! But Maria 
 would listen to no sort of reason : and Agnes upheld her. I 
 wonder the Signer allowed it. They will not get me in. I shall 
 see the dear lost one in her coffin to-night ; but I will not see 
 her the actor in all that mummery." 
 
 The old lady was interrupted by the entrance of Madame de 
 Castella. She did not know St. John was there ; and her first 
 surprised movement was that of retreat. But a different feeling 
 came over her, and she stepped forward sobbing, holding out 
 both her hands. 
 
 A few broken sentences of mutual sorrow, and then the 
 scene became disagreeably painful to Mr. St. John. Madame 
 de Castella's sobs were loud and hysterical, her mother's 
 tears rained down quietly. He took his leave almost in 
 silence. 
 
 " Would you like to attend the funeral?" asked the old lady. 
 " It takes place to-morrow." 
 
 "To-morrow !" he echoed : the haste striking upon his Eng- 
 lish ideas as unseemly, 
 
 " To-morrow at eleven." 
 
 " Perhaps Mr. St. John would not like it ? " interposed 
 Madame de Castella between her sobs. " The Baron de la 
 Chasse is coming for it." 
 
 " And what if he is ! " cried her mother. " Surely their 
 animosities must have ended now. Be here a quarter before 
 eleven, my friend, if it would be any satisfaction to you to see 
 the last of her." 
 
 Ah yes, all animosities had ended then, and St. John did not 
 fail to be there. It was one of the grandest funerals ever seen
 
 376 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 in Belport. Amidst the long line of priests was Father Marc : 
 and he recognized St. John and saluted him courteously and 
 cordially, as if entirely oblivious of the past, and of the share 
 he had taken in it. Signor de Castella walked bareheaded 
 after the coffin ; de la Chasse and another near friend were 
 next. St. John was lost amid the crowd of followers, and his 
 companion was Monsieur le Comte le Coq de Monty. 
 
 "So happy to have the honour of meeting you again, though 
 it is upon this melancholy occasion ! " cried the Comte, who 
 was very fond of talking and had hastened to fasten himself on 
 Mr. St. John. " What a sad thing that consumption is ! And 
 de la Chasse is here ! How he must feel her loss ! the 
 engaging, beautiful demoiselle that she was ! " 
 
 The procession moved on. To the church first, and then to 
 the grave. But amidst all its pomp and show, amidst the tall 
 candles, the glittering crucifixes, the banners of silver and 
 black, amidst the array of priests and their imposing vest- 
 ments ; through the low murmurs of their soothing chant, lost 
 in the echoes of the streets ; even beyond that one dark mass, 
 the cheaf feature of the pageant, borne by eight men with 
 measured tread, through his regrets for what was in it— his 
 buried love — there came something else, totally foreign to all 
 this, and uncalled for by will, floating through the mind of Mr. 
 St. John. 
 
 The curious tale whispered to him by Rose Darling the 
 previous day, touching the fancies of Mrs. Carleton St. John, 
 was connecting itself, in a haunting fashion, with certain words 
 he had heard dropped by Honour at Castle Wafer. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXn. 
 
 SOME MONTHS ONWARDS. 
 
 It was August weather. The glowing sunlight of the day had 
 faded, and the drawing-rooms were lighted at Castle Wafer. 
 A small group of guests had gathered there ; it may almost be 
 said a family group ; had been spending there some five or six 
 weeks. Changes have taken place since you met them last. 
 Its master has come into the inheritance so coveted by Mrs. 
 Carleton St. John for her own child : and he is also in stronger
 
 SOME MONTHS ONWARDS. 377 
 
 health than he has been for years. Look at him as he sits in 
 the remotest corner of the room, his table covered with books 
 and bearing a small shaded reading-lamp. But he is not read- 
 ing now ; he is listening with a fond smile to a charming girl in 
 white evening attire, as she sits close to him and talks in a low 
 voice. Her great eyes, of a blue grey, are raised to his face, 
 and the gold chain glistens on her fair white shoulders as she 
 bends towards him, and she seems to be petitioning some 
 favour ; for he keeps shaking his head in the negative, as if to 
 tantalize her ; but the kindly look in his eyes, and the sweet 
 smile on his face are very conspicuous. You have met her 
 before : it is Miss Beauclerc, the daughter of the Dean of 
 Westerbury. 
 
 Unpleasantly conspicuous, that smile and that tender look, 
 to one of the distant group. The glittering chandelier — and 
 only one chandelier has been lighted to-night, as is usual on 
 these quiet evenings — is reflected as in a thousand prisms by 
 the wax-lights, and the glitter shines full on the face of this one 
 lady, who sits back in the satin chair unnoticed, her dark eyes 
 disagreeably fierce and eager. Is she a young girl? She really 
 looks like one, in her black silk dress with its low simple body 
 and short sleeves, edged only with a narrow ruching of white 
 crape ; looks almost as young as Miss Beauclerc. But she is 
 not young ; she has passed her thirtieth year, and more than 
 that; and you have met her before, for she is the widow of 
 George Carleton St. John of Alnwick. They call her here at 
 Castle Wafer Mrs. Carleton, in a general way, as her additional 
 name would interfere with Mrs. St. John's. We had better do 
 the same. Sometimes they call her Charlotte ; and she likes 
 that best, for she hates the name of Carleton, simply because 
 it was the name of her late husband's first wife. 
 
 Right underneath the chandelier, both of them at some sort 
 of work, sit Mrs. St. John and Mrs. Darling. Mrs. St. John 
 has recovered the accident of a year ago ; it left a languor 
 upon her which she is rather too fond of indulging. Isaac St. 
 John is glad that visitors should be staying at Castle Wafer, for 
 they divert his step-mother, whom he greatly esteems and 
 respects, from her own fancied ailments. That accident would 
 seem to have aged her ten years, and you would take her to be 
 nearly sixty. Lastly, talking and laughing at the open glass 
 doors, now halting inside, now stepping forth on the terrace in 
 the balmy summer's night, are Rose Darling and P>ederick St.
 
 378 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 John. Frederick has been but a few days arrived, after an 
 absence of many months, chiefly spent in the Holy Land ; the 
 rest have been for six weeks at Castle Wafer. 
 
 Six weeks, and they went for only one ! Isaac pressed the 
 visit upon Mrs. Carleton, whose position he much pitied, and 
 politely invited Mrs. Darling to accompany her with any of the 
 Miss Darlings she might like to bring. Mrs. Darling accepted 
 the invitation and brought Rose. The other two were staying 
 with old Mrs. Darling in Berkshire, who was flourishing and 
 seemed likely to live to be a hundred. It almost seemed to 
 Isaac St. John, in his refined sensitiveness, that he had com- 
 mitted a wrong on Charlotte St. John, by succeeding to the 
 property that would have been her husband's and then her 
 son's, had they lived. Could he have done it with any sort of 
 delicacy, he had made over to her a handsome yearly income. 
 Indeed, he had hinted at this to Mrs. Darling, but that lady 
 said she felt sure it could not be done with Charlotte's proud 
 spirit. Isaac hoped still : and meanwhile he pressed Charlotte 
 to stay with them at Castle Wafer, not to run away, as her 
 mother talked of doing. Mrs. Darling had been talking of it 
 this month past ; and her departure was now really fixed for 
 the morrow. She was going with Rose to Paris ; but Charlotte 
 had accepted the invitation to remain. 
 
 Her fate really deserved sympathy. Bereft of her husband, 
 of her cherished son, bereft not only of the fortune but also of 
 the position she had thought to secure in marrying the master 
 of Alnwick, she had perforce retired into a very humble 
 individual again, who could not keep up much of an establish- 
 ment of her own. In health she was perfectly well : all that 
 dark time seemed to have passed away as a dream : she was 
 better-looking than ever, and the ^inward fever that used to 
 consume her and render her a very shadow, did not waste her 
 now. MrSo Darling had spoken to her seriously of what her 
 future plans should be : that lady herself would probably have 
 desired nothing better than to keep her favourite daughter with 
 her always : but her other daughters rose rather rebelliously 
 against it, and some unpleasantness had been the result. 
 
 Rose spoke out freely, as was her custom. If Charlotte did 
 remain with them, she should not stand any domineering ; and 
 Mary Anne and Margaret Darling intimated that they should 
 not leave grandmamma until home was free for them. Charlotte 
 had brought this ill-will upon herself by the very line of con-
 
 SOME MONTHS ONWARDS. 379 
 
 duct Rose spoke openly about— domineering. ]\Irs. Darling 
 was a little perplexed : but she was an easy-tempered woman, 
 and was content to let trifles take their chance. There was no 
 immediate hurry : Charlotte's visit at Castle Wafer was to be 
 extended, against the wish of Mrs. Darling, and might be con- 
 tinued for an indefinite time. Who knew but that Charlotte 
 might captivate its bachelor master ? And who knetu but Char- 
 lotte herself zvas cntertainiug the same possibility ? Mrs. Darling 
 feared so ; and, in all cases where Charlotte was concerned, she 
 was a keen observer. What, though Isaac St. John had a hump 
 upon his back, he was, apart from that, a lovable man — a man 
 that even an attractive woman might covet for her own. 
 
 Mrs. Darling's employment this evening was some intricate 
 working of gold beads on canvas. And every time she 
 looked oft" to take up a bead upon the long needle, she seized 
 the opportunity to glance at Charlotte. How entirely still she 
 ^vas ! — leaning back in the armchair ; her delicate hands lying 
 motionless on her lap. But for the eyes, directed to one part 
 of the room, and the angry glare beginning now to shine in 
 them, Mrs. Darling had deemed her entirely at rest. She, 
 Mrs. Darling, moved her chair, apparendy to get some better 
 light for the beads, and the change of position enabled her to 
 look towards the spot herself 
 
 Miss Beauclerc, her fair face bending forward in its eagerness, 
 her wide open, fine grey eyes raised to his, had laid her two 
 hands on Isaac St. John's ; and he had playfully made prisoner 
 of them and was keeping them fast. In the stillness of the 
 room their voices were distinctly heard. 
 
 " You will promise it to me, then ! " 
 
 Isaac laughed and shook his head. " You don't know how 
 incorrigible the man has been, Georgie." 
 
 " All the more reason for your forgiving him." 
 
 " If the dean were here, I'm not sure that he would say so. 
 He has had the greatest trouble with him, Georgina." 
 
 "That's just why I'm asking you," cried the girl prettily and 
 saucily. " Papa might refuse me 3 you must not. You know 
 you can'ty 
 
 " What will you give if I say yes ? " 
 
 "I'll give you " she dropped her voice and laughed. 
 
 Isaac bent and kissed her crimson cheek. Kissed it as a father 
 might kiss a child ; but she drew back shyly, and blushed to 
 her fingers' ends, half glancing towards the window.
 
 380 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Something like a faint sound of anger came from Charlotte. 
 It was smothered beneath a sudden cough. No ears heard it 
 save those of the anxious mother ; no eyes, save hers, saw the 
 involuntary clenching of the impassive hands. She — Mrs. 
 Darling — sat upright in her chair and turned her eyes in the 
 direction where her daughter's were fixed. 
 
 " Did you obtain that information to-day. Sir Isaac ? " 
 
 Sir Isaac was again laughing — oh, how much better in health 
 was he now than of yore ! — and did not hear the question. 
 
 " Are you speaking to me, Mrs. Darling ? " 
 
 " That information you said you would obtain for me about 
 the conjunction of the trains. Did you do so ? " 
 
 " Brumm did. I thought he had given you the paper. He 
 has all particulars set down, 1 know, in black and white. Per- 
 haps he gave it to Miss Rose ? " 
 
 "Who is taking my name in vain?" cried Rose, looking in, 
 her bright face aglow with mirth. 
 
 Mr. St. John had been standing for the last few minutes 
 inside the room, Rose on the threshold. As he talked to her, 
 his eyes had unconsciously rested on the face of Mrs. Carleton ; 
 and the strange expression in hers, their look of fierce anger, 
 had struck him with amazement ; even the movement of the 
 hands, telling of suppressed pain, was not wholly hidden from 
 him. With a rush and a whirl there came back to his mind 
 certain facts connected with Mrs. Carleton St. John, which 
 had almost faded out of his remembrance. But what could 
 be the cause of her antipathy to Miss Beauclerc? And there 
 was antipathy in those eyes, if he ever read eyes in this world. 
 
 It was over directly, — quick as a flash of lightning, — and the 
 relative situations of the parties changed. Georgina Beauclerc 
 came to the table with a light step, as gay and careless as 
 Rose ; Sir Isaac followed more slowly, and sat down by Mrs. 
 Carleton. 
 
 "You look pleased, my dear," observed Mrs. St. John, 
 glancing up at Georgina. 
 
 " I have been teasing Sir Isaac, and I have gained ray wish. 
 But — you didn't see " — and she bent her lips with a smile-^ 
 "I had to give him a kiss for the concession." 
 
 " Rather a hazardous favour to grant in a general way," 
 observed Mrs. Darling, whose ears the whispered words had 
 reached. "Some gentlemen, in the bachelor position of Sir 
 Isaac, might deem the gift significant."
 
 SOME MONTHS ONWARDS. 381 
 
 She put down her beads and her canvas, and looked full at 
 Georgina, expecting a protest against such motives. But in 
 this she was mistaken. Georgina only threw back her pretty 
 head with a laugh ; and in it — at least to Mrs. Darling's ears- 
 there was a sound of triumph. 
 
 " What was your petition to him, my dear ? " asked Mrs. St. 
 John. 
 
 "Ah, that's a secret; it's something between himself and 
 me ; " and Miss Georgina Beauclerc went dancing towards the 
 window, as if desiring a breath of the fresh night air. 
 
 The scene was almost more lovely than by day, with that 
 moon, brighter than you often see it in August, shining on the 
 landscape, and bringing out its light and its shade. Mrs. 
 Carleton, every vestige of dissatisfaction removed, talked to 
 Sir Isaac St. John. The tones of her voice were low and 
 tender; the pale, passive countenance was singularly attractive. 
 Sir Isaac had grown to like her very much indeed ; and she 
 knew it. But, what perhaps she did not know, liking with 
 him had hitherto been confined to respect, esteem, friendship, 
 — as the case might be. Never had the probability of its going 
 further occurred to any one. He had always expressed a deter- 
 mination to live and die unmarried, and it was accepted as a 
 matter of certainty. 
 
 Mr. St. John leaned against the wall, partly shaded by the 
 blue satin window-curtains. He was watching her keenly. 
 All that old gossip which had reached him, creating a strange 
 suspicion in his mind, was rising up bit by bit. She mad ! 
 Surely not ! In that low, modulated voice ; in that composed, 
 self-controlled countenance; in those dark eyes, lighted now 
 with a pleasant smile, there was no madness to be traced, past, 
 present, or to come, — not a symptom of it. What had Rose 
 meant by taking up the idea seriously ? — by speaking of it to 
 him? Nay, his was the fault for having listened to her. 
 Rose ! vain, giddy, careless as of old. Mr. St. John had 
 wondered two or three times this past week what she was 
 coming to. 
 
 As he looked, an idea flashed over him. He had noticed 
 this last week, since his residence with them, little odds and 
 ends in Mrs. Carleton's conduct. How she strove incessantly 
 to make herself agreeable to Sir Isaac ; how she walked out 
 with him, drove out with him, sat with him oftentimes in his 
 morning-room, how suave she was to Mr. Brumm ; how, in
 
 382 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 short, she seemed to have one object in life — and that, to 
 devote herself to Sir Isaac. It was very kind of her — very- 
 considerate, had been Frederick's only thought until now, and 
 he felt grateful to her, though rather wondering ; he felt grate- 
 ful to any one who appreciated his brother ; but now the truth 
 seemed to have opened his eyes, and removed the scales that 
 were before them. She was hoping to become Lady St. 
 John. 
 
 Every feeling of Frederick St. John rose up in arms against 
 it. Not against his brother marrying. If it would be for his 
 comfort and happiness, Frederick would have been glad to see 
 him marry on the morrow. But to marry her — with that 
 possibility of taint in her blood ? Any one in the wide world, 
 rather than Charlotte Carleton. The room suddenly felt too 
 hot for him, and he turned from it impetuously, his hand lifted 
 to his brow. 
 
 " Who's this ? Don't run over me, Mr. St. John." 
 
 He had nearly run over her ; she was so still ; gathered there 
 against the wall, just beyond the window. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Georgina; I was deep in thought." 
 
 "Is it not a lovely night?" 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so. How long" — he dropped his voice — 
 " is Mrs. Carleton going to remain here ? Do you know ? " 
 
 " Not I. How should I ? Mrs. Darling and Rose leave to- 
 morrow." 
 
 There was a pause. He held out his arm to Georgina, and 
 began slowly to pace the terrace with her. She looked very 
 fair, very lovely in the moonlight. 
 
 " How came Mrs. Carleton to prolong her stay beyond that 
 of her mother and sister ? " 
 
 "As if I knew ! Sir Isaac pressed it, I think. I heard him 
 say to her one day that as Mrs. St. John intended to spend the 
 winter at Castle Wafer, she could not do better than promise 
 him to remain also. Don't you like her ? " 
 
 " Not very much, I think." 
 
 " I did like her. I cannot tell you how much I pitied her. 
 It seems so hard a fate to lose her husband and her two 
 children, and now to have lost Alnwick. But she won't let me 
 like her ; she is so very distant with me ; repellant might be 
 the better word ; and so I think she is making me «/wlike her. 
 I like Rose." 
 
 He laughed. " No one can help liking Rose ; with all her
 
 SOME MONTHS ONWARDS. 383 
 
 faults she is open as the day. Do you know, Georgina, I used 
 at times to think Rose very much hke you." 
 
 " In face ? " 
 
 " No. And yet there may be a certain resemblance even there : 
 both of you are fair, and both — pretty. You need not fling 
 away from me as if it were treason to say so. But I meant in 
 mannen You were once as wild as Rose is now." 
 
 " You saw a great deal of her this time last year, did you not, 
 when she was staying with Adeline de Castella ? " 
 
 " Yes," he laconically answered. 
 
 Georgina Beauclerc turned to the terrace railings, and leaned 
 over them, looking far away. He stood by her side in silence. 
 
 " Do you think I am wild in manner now ? " she presently 
 asked. 
 
 " No ; you have greatly changed." 
 
 "Those old, old days in Westerbury — and I know I 'iuas 
 wild in them — have faded away as a dream. It seems so long 
 ago ! — and yet, marked by the calendar, it is only a short time. 
 One may live years in a few months, Mr. St. John." 
 
 With the privileged freedom of his boyhood he turned her 
 face towards him, and saw what he had suspected. The blue 
 eyes were filled with tears. 
 
 "What is it, child?" 
 
 "Nothing. Past days are often sad to look back to." 
 
 " Do you know that you /lavc changed — wonderfully 
 changed ? " 
 
 " From my wildness? Yes, I think I have been tamed." 
 
 " And what has tamed you ? " 
 
 " Oh," — there was a slight pause — " nothing but my own 
 good sense." 
 
 " And now please tell me why you call me Mr. St. John. 
 You have been doing it all the week." 
 
 The tears vanished, and a slight smile parted the pretty lips. 
 
 " You are Mr. St. John now." 
 
 " Not to you, I should have thought." 
 
 " I remember the lecture you once gave me for calling you 
 Fred." 
 
 " No doubt. I gave you little else than lectures then ; some 
 of them in earnest, some in fun. The lecture you speak of 
 was of the latter description." 
 
 " I know how vexed you used to ?et with me. You must 
 have hated me very much."
 
 384 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Wrong, young lady. Had I cared for you less, I should 
 not have lectured you. We don't get vexed with those we 
 dislike. I should lecture you still, if I saw cause to do it." 
 
 Georgina laughed. They were again pacing the terrace, for 
 he had placed her arm in his. 
 
 "I always believed in you, Georgina, though you did 
 require so much keeping in order. You were as wild a young 
 damsel as I ever wish to see. It is well your mood has 
 changed." 
 
 " I dare say you mean to say my manners." 
 
 *' Call it what you will. I like you best as you are. What's 
 that, shooting up like a bonfire ? " 
 
 They paused and watched the appearance he spoke of : a 
 flaming light in a distant field. 
 
 " I know," cried Georgina, " Old Phipps is burning that 
 dead tree of his. Sir Isaac told him this morning not to let it 
 lie there across the path." 
 
 " Were you there with Isaac this morning ? So far off as 
 that ! " 
 
 "He and I and Mrs. Carleton had walked there. He is a 
 famous walker now." 
 
 " A little bird whispered a tale to me about you, Georgina, 
 as I came through London," he said, resuming their walk. 
 " Shall I tell it ? " 
 
 " Tell it if you like. What is it ? " 
 
 "That you might, at no very distant time, be mistress of 
 Hawkhurst His lordship " 
 
 " What a wicked untruth," she burst forth, as impulsively as 
 ever she had spoken in former days. "Who told it you.-* It 
 was Sarah, I'm sure ; and she knows I refused him." 
 
 "I'm sure he is a well-meaning young man; easy, good- 
 tempered, and very fond of you." 
 
 " He is as stupid as an owl," returned Georgina, in her 
 anger. " Oh — I see : you are only laughing at me." 
 
 " Tell me why you would not have him. We used to tell 
 each other mutual secrets in bygone days. Do you remember 
 that real secret — that accident — when you nearly set the 
 deanery on fire, by placing the lamp too close to the window- 
 curtains, and I burnt my hands in putting the fire out, and 
 then took down the curtains afterwards, to remove all traces of 
 fire from them ? I suppose the dean does not know the truth 
 to this day."
 
 SOME MONTHS ONWARDS. 385 
 
 " Mamma does not ; and that is a great deal more to the 
 purpose. She still believes the curtains were mysteriously 
 stolen. They were fortunately very beautiful." 
 
 " Fortunately ! But you have not told me why you dismissed 
 Hawkhurst and his coronet." 
 
 " I wouldn't have him if he had ten coronets. I wouldn't 
 have any one." 
 
 " Do you intend never to marry, Miss Georgina ? " 
 
 " Never, never. Papa and mamma have no one but me, 
 and I shall not leave them." 
 
 Her blushes were conspicuous even in the moonlight. 
 But she raised her head, as if in defiance of the emotion, and 
 looked straight out before her. 
 
 "So you did see Sarah as you came through London ! She 
 has made a good marriage, has she not ? " 
 
 " Very good, in all senses of the word. She has rank, wealth ; 
 and her husband, for a Viscount, is really a superior man." 
 
 " For a Viscount ! What next ? Is Sarah as beautiful as 
 ever?" 
 
 " Well — no. She was both thin and pale. She'll get up 
 her looks again by-and-by, I dare say." 
 
 " I'm sure she's happy, and that's the chief thing. They are 
 to come to us at Westerbury next winter. Talking of Wester- 
 bury," continued Georgina, " Rose Darling had a letter from 
 \Vesterbury this morning." 
 
 " Indeed ! I was not aware that Rose was acquainted with 
 Westerbury, or any one in it. Here she comes." 
 
 She had been standing outside the window, and came forward 
 as he spoke. She had caught the sound of her own name, and 
 wanted to know — as she had just before, in the drawing-room — 
 why they were taking it in vain. 
 
 " Miss Beauclerc says you heard from Westerbury this 
 morning." 
 
 " Well, so I did," cried Rose. " The letter was from Mary 
 Carr. She is staying with some friends there : what's their 
 name ? — Mr. and Mrs. Travice Arkell." 
 
 " Ah, yes," said Mr. St. John. " I heard from Travice not 
 long ago." 
 
 " Did he mention Lucy ? " asked Georgina. 
 
 " He said Lucy had sent her love to me, and that that was all 
 he could get out of her, for she was rapturously absorbed in her 
 new toy, the baby." 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. 25
 
 386 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Mary Carr says you are to be its godfather," remarked 
 Rose. 
 
 " Oh, are you ? " cried Georgina. " Which is it — a boy or a 
 girl ? " 
 
 Mr. St. John considered, and then laughed. " I declare I 
 don't know," he said ; " it's one of the two. Travice told me, I 
 think, but I forget. Knowing who the godmother is to be, 
 I forgot all about the baby." 
 
 " And who is it to be — Mrs. Dundyke ? " 
 " Not at all. It is a lady of a great deal more importance — • 
 in size, at any rate. Miss Fauntleroy." 
 
 Georgina laughed. Rose was a little puzzled : the bygone 
 histories were strange to her. And she was feeling cross 
 besides. Where Rose took a fancy — and she had taken one 
 long ago to Frederick St. John — she did not like to see atten- 
 tions given to any one but her own sweet self. She tossed her 
 head, throwing back her blue ribbons and golden curls. 
 
 " Is your sister going to make a long stay with us. Rose? " 
 he quietly asked. 
 
 " My opinion is, that she'll make it just as long as you choose 
 to ask her : for ever and a day if Sir Isaac should please. Take 
 care of her, Frederick St. John ! I never saw Charlotte put 
 forth her attractions as she is doing now." 
 
 She spoke at random — in her wild carelessness : she had 
 never given a suspicion to the truth — that her sister was pur- 
 posely trying to attract Isaac St. John. Cold, proud, arrogant ; 
 to do so, would be against Charlotte's nature, as Rose had 
 always believed. 
 
 Mrs. Darling and Rose took their departure from Castle 
 Wafer, leaving Charlotte and Georgina Beauclerc its only 
 guests. It was lovely weather, and the weeks went on. The 
 mornings were chiefly spent out of doors. Isaac St. John, so 
 much stronger than he used to be, had never gone about his 
 grounds as he was going now. His companions were always 
 Charlotte Carleton and Georgina ; Frederick often strolling by 
 their side. In the afternoon one or other of them would be 
 driven out by Sir Isaac in his low pony-carriage, and the other 
 would be with Mrs. St. John, sitting at home with her or going 
 out in the close carriage, as the case might be. As to Frede- 
 rick, he was apparently leading a very idle life. In point of 
 fact, he was secretly busy as ever was a London detective, 
 watching Mrs. Carleton. He bad been watching her closely
 
 SOME MONTHS ONWARDS. 387 
 
 ever since tlie departure of Mrs. Darling and Rose, now three 
 weeks ago, and he persuaded himself that he did detect signs 
 of incipient madness. 
 
 One thing he detected in which there could be no mistake — 
 her hatred of Georgina Beauclerc. Not by any ordinary signs 
 was this displayed, by rudeness, by slight, or anything of that 
 sort. On the contrary, she was studiously polite to Georgina, 
 even cordial at times. But every now and then, when Georgina 
 crossed her, there would blaze forth a wild, revengeful fire in 
 the eye, there would be an involuntary contraction of the long 
 thin fingers, as though they were tightening on somebody's 
 throat. It would all pass in a moment and was imperceptible 
 to general observation : but Frederick was 7vatching. 
 
 He also observed that whenever she was put out in this way, 
 it was always with reference to Isaac. One day in particular, 
 it almost came to open warfare. 
 
 Sir Isaac had ordered round his pony-carriage in the morning, 
 having to go farther than he could walk. Frederick and Mrs. 
 Carleton were in the morning-room, and it was somehow 
 arranged, in haste, that Mrs. Carleton should accompany him. 
 Frederick had not been particularly attentive at the moment : 
 he was writing letters : but he thought it was Mrs. Carleton 
 herself who offered to go, not Isaac who asked her. Be that as 
 it might, she put on her things, and came back to the room. At 
 almost the same moment, Georgina flew in, a mantle and bonnet 
 in her hand. 
 
 " Are you going out? " asked Mrs. Carleton, drawing her shawl 
 more closely around her slender and stately form. 
 
 "I am going with Sir Isaac," replied Georgina: and Mrs. 
 Carleton made an almost imperceptible pause before she spoke 
 again. 
 
 "/am going with Sir Isaac." 
 
 "That I'm sure you are not," cried Georgina, in her spoilt, 
 girlish way. " Sir Isaac is going to Hatherton, and knows why 
 I must go there with him : why he must take me in preference 
 to any one else. Don't you, Sir Isaac?" she added, entwining 
 her arm within his. 
 
 " You petted child ! " he fondly said. " Who told you I was 
 going to Hatherton ? " 
 
 " Brumm. I asked him what the pony-carriage had come 
 round for this morning. You will take me ? " she continued, 
 her voice and manner irresistible in their sweetness.
 
 338 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " I suppose I must," he answered. " If Mrs. Carleton will 
 allow me — will excuse the trouble she has had in putting on her 
 things. There ! put on your bonnet, my wilful, troublesome 
 child ; you would charm a bird from its nest." 
 
 That any feeling of rivalry could be entertained by either, 
 never once crossed the brain of Sir Isaac St. John. He had 
 watched Georgina Beauclerc grow up from a baby, and he 
 looked upon her still as a child : he gave way to her moods as 
 we give way to those of a child who is very dear to us. He 
 loved her fondly ; he would have liked her for his daughter : 
 and since the project of marrying Frederick to Lady Anne St. 
 John had failed, he had cherished a secret and silent wish 
 down deep in his heart, that Lady Anne might be supplanted 
 by the dean's daughter. But he was cautious not to breathe a 
 hint of this, not to further it by so much as lifting a finger. 
 If it came to pass, well and good, but he would never again 
 plot and plan, and be made miserable by failure, as he had 
 been in the case of Lady Anne. That Mrs. Carleton could be 
 seriously annoyed at his disappointing her for Georgina, did 
 not occur to him : it never would have occurred to him that 
 she could look on the young lady as anything but a lovable 
 and loving child. 
 
 They went out to the pony-carriage, Georgina on his arm and 
 prattling in her pretty way. Sir Isaac placed her in, solicitous 
 for her comfort, and took his seat beside her. Her bright face 
 and its sparkling grey eyes were beaming with triumph, and she 
 turned back with a saucy farewell. 
 
 " Don't expect us home until you see us." 
 
 Let us give Georgina Beauclerc her due. She never sus- 
 pected, any more than did Sir Isaac, that Mrs. Carleton could 
 by any possibility regard her as a rival. Had she been told 
 that Mrs. Carleton was laying siege to the master of Castle 
 Wafer, Georgina had retired to a respectful distance and looked 
 on. From her light-hearted youth, they appeared very old to 
 her. Mrs. Carleton was a widow, who had lost all she cared for 
 in life ; Sir Isaac was a second father to her, looking older, in 
 his hump, than her own, and she was at lit^|rty to be free and 
 familiar with him as a daughter. 
 
 Mrs. Carleton stood at the window as they drove off. She 
 was wholly mistaking matters, as we all do when ill-nature or 
 prejudice is upon us. The triumphant look in the girl's face 
 and eyes, really shining forth in her warm-hearted joyousness,
 
 SOME MONTHS ONWARDS. 389 
 
 and unsuspicious of offence to any, was regarded by Charlotte 
 Carleton as a displayed triumph over her ; the saucy farewell, 
 which was more saucy in tone than in words, and which was 
 meant for no one in particular, but for Frederick if any one, was 
 taken by the unhappy lady to herself. That strange evil look 
 arose in her eyes as she gazed after the carriage, and a shiver 
 passed through her frame. 
 
 Frederick St. John was half frightened. If ever a woman 
 looked mad, she looked so in that moment. Her long fingers 
 quivered, her lips were drawn, her face was white as death. He 
 rose silently. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mrs. Carleton : you are dropping your 
 shawl." 
 
 In truth the shawl, which had become unfastened, was falling 
 from her shoulders, and he made it an excuse for interfering, 
 speaking in quiet, soothing tones, to be near her and prepared, 
 should there be any act of violence. She turned and glared at 
 him. No other w^ord will express the blaze that was in her 
 eyes at the moment. One whole minute did she so stand 
 before she recollected herself, or seemed to know what she was 
 looking at or where she Avas. Then she gathered up the shawl 
 on her arm, and sat down quietly. 
 
 "Thank you," she said ; "this silk shawl is given to slipping 
 off." 
 
 In a moment she had obtained perfect mastery of herself : her 
 pale face was calm again, nay, impassive ; her eyes had lost 
 their frightful expression, and were ordinary eyes once more. 
 Frederick asked whether he should drive her out ; there was 
 Mrs. St. John's basket-carriage : if she would like a little fresh 
 air, he was at her service. 
 
 , At first she said no ; but recalled the negative and thought 
 she would trouble him. It was so quiet indoors this morning 
 without Sir Isaac, and that gay, foolish girl, Georgina. Yes ; 
 if not interrupting those apparently important letters, she would 
 accept his offer. 
 
 So the basket-carriage — rather a rickety affair, for Mrs. St. 
 John never used it now, and it was given over to neglect — was 
 ordered round. Mrs. Carleton put on her shawl again, and 
 they started. And there he was, driving this, as he verily be- 
 lieved, half-mad woman, who was calm as an angel now ; con- 
 versing with him sensibly and placidly, a pleasant smile in her 
 dark eyes.
 
 390 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 But thiS morning's doings were an exception. In a general 
 way it was Mrs. Carleton who was the companion of Isaac St. 
 John. She walked with him in the morning ; Georgina and 
 Frederick generally falling into the background ; she drove out 
 with him in the afternoon ; she sat by his side, speaking in soft 
 whispers, at night. That she was either really in love with Isaac 
 St. John, or striving to make him in love with her, there could 
 no longer be any doubt on the mind of Frederick. He won- 
 dered whether it was apparent to others ; but he could not tell. 
 
 Over and over again he asked himself the question — were 
 these signs of madness, or not ? People were rather in the 
 habit of turning white with passion ; he himself, to wit, on 
 occasion ; and jealousy and dislike of a pretty girl were nothing 
 new. All that was as nothing : but he could not forget that 
 awful look in the eyes, that movement of the hands, that peculiar 
 shiver of the frame ; and he believed that she, Charlotte Carle- 
 ton, was either mad or in danger of becoming so. You see, 
 the doubt had been already implanted in him by Rose Darling ; 
 but for that, he might never have so much as glanced at the 
 possibility ; and he very seriously pondered the question, whether 
 this fear arose solely from that whispered communication, and 
 had no place in reality. 
 
 It is possible the affair altogether might not have continued 
 to trouble him, but for a word dropped by his mother. Mrs. 
 Carleton sat by Sir Isaac that evening in the drawing-room, her 
 low words breathed in the softest whisper. She was trying to 
 learn, so ladylike and candid all the while, what business he 
 and Georgina had had at Hatherton. Isaac made no very 
 particular reply : and indeed there was none to make. A man 
 lived at Hatherton who had been a protege of the dean's, but 
 he fell into evil habits, ill-treated his poor sick wife, and finally 
 was discarded. It was for this man Georgina had been begging 
 grace of Isaac — that Sir Isaac would take him on, and give him 
 a trial ; and it was to see the wife that Georgina went to 
 Hatherton. No great news to tell ; and Sir Isaac did not per- 
 ceive that Mrs. Carleton was anxious to hear it. Presently Sir 
 Isaac rose, went out, and sat down on the terrace ; it was a 
 sultry night, and every breath of air was grateful. Mrs. Carleton 
 also went out and sat by him. 
 
 " Frederick," whispered IN'Irs. St. John, in the impulse of the 
 moment, " should you be very much disappointed were Isaac 
 to give Castle Wafer a mistress?"
 
 SOME MONTHS ONWARDS. 391 
 
 So his mother had noticed it ! " Not if the mistress were 
 suitable." 
 
 " He might give it a worse, Frederick ; I hke her." 
 
 Frederick St. John drew in his breath. A worse ! Surely, 
 never a worse, if his fears Avere correct, than she ; not though 
 Isaac searched the whole world through. Mrs. St. John looked 
 up at her son. 
 
 '' You are silent, Frederick. Should you not like her ? " 
 
 " I think not." 
 
 " It is only a suggestion that crossed me ; it does seem next 
 door to an impossibility that Isaac should marry, after all. 
 Don't let it make you uncomfortable." 
 
 " Nay, mother mine, you mistake me," he said. " None would 
 more heartily welcome the thought of a wife for Isaac, should 
 such be his own desire ; but I— I think I should not like the 
 wife to be Mrs. Carleton." 
 
 He spoke calmly, but a flush passed over his brow at the 
 thought, a chill to his heart. He quitted his mother and 
 strolled outside. 
 
 Georgina was with Isaac then. She had edged herself be- 
 tween him and the arm of the bench, and was taking up his 
 attention, to the exclusion of Mrs. Carleton. If the girl had 
 only known the sin she was committing in that lady's sight ! 
 Luring him away in her pretty wilfulness to walk with her on 
 the lower walks under the bright stars ; and he went without so 
 much as a word of apology or regret to Mrs. Carleton : and 
 the sound of their voices as they paced together, came up with 
 a joyous ring on the still night air. Frederick St. John watched 
 her attentively under cover of the darkness ; he saw the dis- 
 torted countenance, the fearful eyes, and he decided that she 
 was mad, and was meditating some revenge on Miss Beauclerc. 
 
 It troubled him greatly. At one moment he recalled all the 
 queer and horrible tales he had heard of people killing or 
 injuring others in their madness, previously unsuspected; the 
 next, he asked himself whether he were awake or dreaming, 
 that he should call up ideas so unlikely and fantastical. By- 
 and-by, when they were all indoors again, Mrs. Carleton sat 
 down to the piano, and sang some low, sweet music, charming 
 their ears, winning their hearts. Had all the doctors connected 
 with Bethlehem Hospital come forward then to declare her 
 mad, people would have laughed at them for their pains ; and 
 Mr. St. John amidst the rest.
 
 392 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Have you ever observed with what a different aspect we see 
 things in the morning from what we saw them at night ? In 
 the broad hght of the busthng day, if we by chance glance 
 back at our evening fancies — seeming true enough then — it is 
 with a shrug of compassion at their folly. All the time Mr. St. 
 John was dressing, the sun shining gaily into his chamber, he 
 was feeling rather ashamed .of himself. How could he have 
 allowed those horrible thoughts to obtain a moment's ascend- 
 ency the previous night ? Was he not doing Mrs. Carleton an 
 unpardonable injury? He had positively no grounds whatever 
 to go upon, except that past communication made by Rose, 
 which might have had no truth in it. " I've a great mind to 
 go away ! " quoth Mr. St. John, " and pick up some common 
 sense before I come back again." 
 
 As he went along the corridor, Mrs. Carleton was coming 
 out of her own room, pale, quiet, handsome, her head raised a 
 little haughtily as usual. She held out her hand to Mr. St. 
 John with a smile ; and he, in his new fit of repentance, placed 
 it within his arm, and led her downstairs. 
 
 "I have had a letter from Rose," she said. "Would you 
 like to see it ? She speaks of Paris as of an elysium." 
 
 She sat down to preside at the breakfast-table. Mrs. St. 
 John rarely quitted her room until midday. The windows 
 opened to the terrace, and he went out, the letter in his hand. 
 Georgina was leaning on some railings, and did not turn to 
 greet him. He asked her what she was looking at. 
 
 " I'm not looking : I am thinking. I was trying to recollect 
 whether I really had an adventure in the night, or whether it 
 was only a dream." 
 
 The words, without perhaps sufficient cause, seemed to 
 sharpen every faculty he possessed. Crushing Rose's letter in 
 his hand, as a thing of no moment, he asked Georgina to 
 explain what she meant. 
 
 " Something awoke me in the middle of the night," she 
 said ; " and I saw, or thought I saw, a face bending over my 
 bed, close to mine. I called out, ' Who is it ? What do you 
 want .'' ' but there was no answer, only the curtain seemed to 
 stir, and then the door closed very quietly, as if whoever it was 
 had left the room. I don't think I was yet quite awake, but I 
 ran to the door, opened it, and looked out. I saw — at least 
 I fancied I saw — that quiet maid of Mrs. Carleton's, Prance ; 
 she was standing in the corridor in a white petticoat or night-
 
 SOME MONTHS ONWARDS. 393 
 
 dress, and I could have declared that I heard her speaking in 
 an angry whisper. But the next moment I could see no trace 
 of any one ; and when ray eyes grew accustomed to the grey 
 light, I saw that all the chamber doors were shut." 
 
 He paused an instant before replying. "Are you sure it 
 was Prance in the corridor ? Did you see her distinctly?" 
 
 " I saw only the white things she was wrapped in ; the out- 
 line of her figure. It was by that outline I took it to be 
 Prance, and because she was standing at Mrs. Carleton's door, 
 which was then open, or seemed to be." 
 
 ".Could it have been Mrs. Carleton herself, standing there?" 
 
 " No. It was nothing like tall enough. If it was anybody, 
 it was Prance ; that is, if anything of the sort did take place, 
 and it was not a dream ; and she was speaking angrily to some 
 one inside Mrs, Carleton's room." 
 
 " Do you, yourself, think it was a dream, Georgina ? " 
 
 " I should have felt quite certain that it was not a dream, 
 that it was all reality, only that Prance positively denies it. 
 She says she never was out of the room at all last night after 
 Mrs. Carleton came up to bed. She says, she thinks I must, 
 have had a nightmare." 
 
 " Where does Prance sleep ? Somewhere at the back, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " She sleeps in Mrs. Carleton's room. Did you not know it ? 
 There was a little bed put into the^ room for her the day they 
 came. Mrs, Carleton does not like sleeping in a room alone." 
 
 " When did you speak to Prance about it ? " 
 
 "Just now I saw her in the corridor. I asked whether 
 anything was the matter last night, but she did not seem to 
 know what I meant, and I explained. She quite laughed at 
 me, saying I must have been suffering from nightmare." 
 
 " And denying that she was in the corridor ? " 
 
 " Entirely. She says it's not possible any one could have 
 been there, for she slept very badly last night, and must have 
 heard the slightest movement outside, had there been any, her 
 bed being close to the door. What do you think ? " concluded 
 Georgina. 
 
 Mr. St. John did not say what he thought : he chose rather 
 to treat it lightly. " It might have been a sort of nightmare." 
 
 " But I never had nightmare before in my life. I seemed 
 to see the outline of a head and face over me, though indis- 
 tinctly."
 
 394 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 *' Did you think the face was Prance's ? " 
 
 " It seemed to belong to somebody taller than Prance. I 
 dare say it was a dream, after all. Don't laugh at me." 
 
 " A dream, no doubt," he said. " But Georgina, I would 
 not mention this if I were you. I'll not laugh at it, but others 
 might : and Mrs. Carleton would not like the idea of her door 
 being open, or supposed to have been open in the middle of 
 the night. If Prance has to sleep in her room, I suppose she 
 must be of a timid nature, and she might be getting thieves 
 and robbers into her head should she hear of this." 
 
 " I did not intend to say anything to her. But Prance 
 most likely will." 
 
 " Prance can do as she chooses. There is another thing — 
 I would advise you to lock your chamber door just at present." 
 
 She looked up at him with surprise. " Lock my chamber- 
 door ! What for ? " 
 
 "Well," he answered, after a brief hesitation, "you could 
 not then fancy that any one came in." 
 
 " I could not sleep with my door locked. If a fire took 
 place in the house, I might be burnt up before any one could 
 arouse me." 
 
 " Georgina, trust me," he said, impressively, and he laid his 
 hand upon her shoulder, "/will take care of you in case of 
 fire, and if your door is locked, burst it open. Turn the key 
 of your door just now, to oblige me." 
 
 " Tell me what you suspect — that you should thus caution 
 me." 
 
 " I— think it — just possible— that some one may walk in 
 their sleep. Perhaps one of the maids." 
 
 " Oh ! I should not like that," exclaimed Georgina, unsus- 
 piciously. " I should be far more frightened if some one 
 asleep came into my room in the night, than if they were awake." 
 
 " Just so : therefore you will lock your door. Promise me." 
 
 " I promise, Frederick." 
 
 He turned from her, and crossed the terrace to enter the 
 breakfast-room, she looking after him, a whole world of love 
 shining unconsciously from her wistful eyes. No, it was of no 
 use : she had striven against her love ; but it was all in vain. 
 Passionately as she had loved Frederick St. John in the old 
 days, before he had given signs of liking any one — unless it 
 had been her cousin Sarah, — before he ever saw Adeline de 
 Castella, so passionately she loved him still.
 
 ( 395 ) 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 A TELEGRAM. 
 
 Georgina Beauclerc's revelation was a complete overthrow 
 to Mr. St. John's more tolerant feelings of the mornmg. He 
 fully believed it. He believed that the face leaning over the 
 girl's bed must have been Mrs. Carleton's, that she had glided 
 away when Georgina awoke ; and that Prance, who must have 
 suddenly discovered her absence from the room, had then 
 come in search of her. Why did Prance sleep in her chamber ? 
 That seemed rather an odd thing to Mr. St. John. And — 
 assuming that it was Mrs. Carleton — what motive could have 
 taken her to Georgina's room? — have caused her to hang over 
 her when asleep ? Had she done it in restlessness ? — become 
 weary, and so have risen and prowled about the corridor and 
 the rooms to while away the hours ? Mr. St. John strove to 
 think so : perhaps, rather, to deceive his own heart into think- 
 ing so. As to her having any intention of injuring Georgina, 
 his mind shrank from entertaining the idea. He could not 
 bear even to glance at it : apart from the horror of the thing, 
 it partook too much of the sensational and 'romantic. 
 
 And how, indeed, could he think it ? Took at her now. 
 Sitting there so calm, so gentle, by Georgina's side, handing 
 the cup of tea to Isaac she had just poured out, speaking with 
 a sunny smile. 
 
 " I won't transgress this time. Sir Isaac, and give you too 
 much sugar. Indeed, I forgot before. I must have thought 
 I was sweetening for Mr. St. John." 
 
 " Ay, no doubt," replied Sir Isaac. " He can take any 
 amount of sugar. Do you remember when you were a little 
 fellow, Fred, I would half melt the lumps in my tea, and you 
 would eat them for me ? " 
 
 Frederick laughed. " I remember you indulged me in many 
 things a great deal more than I deserved." 
 
 " I have had a letter from Alnwick this morning," observed 
 Sir Isaac, turning to Mrs. Carleton. " Drake remonstrates 
 against the Hall being left empty any longer. He says if I 
 would only go to it for a week, it would be an earnest that it 
 will sometime be occupied again. What should you all say to
 
 396 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 a week's visit there — provided Mrs. St. John shall think herself 
 well enough to undertake the journey ? " 
 
 No one replied, Mrs. Carleton gave one startled glance 
 upwards, and then busied herself with her tea-making. 
 
 " The alterations in the conservatory are finished," con- 
 tinued Isaac : " a very nice thing they have made of it, Drake 
 says. You remember that awkward-looking corner by the 
 stove, Mrs. Carleton ? That also has been remedied." 
 
 Mrs. Carleton looked up now, her face quietly impassive. 
 " Sir Isaac, I would rather not hear anything about Alnwick. 
 I try to put my past happiness from me as much as possible, 
 and do not care to be reminded of it." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," cried Sir Isaac, in warm, considerate 
 tones ; " I ought to have remembered. Then you would not 
 like to go there ? " 
 
 " No. Not yet." 
 
 Of course that ended it, Sir Isaac intimated, and the con- 
 versation dropped. He was ever solicitous for the comfort of 
 Mrs. Carleton, in small things as in great. This may have 
 arisen solely from his sympathy with her position, from the 
 feeling that he was in possession of the revenues she had once 
 expected would be hers : but that she attributed it to a warmer 
 sentiment, there could be little doubt. 
 
 " Will you go out with me in the pony-carriage this morn- 
 ing?" asked Sir Isaac. "I have not felt so strong the last 
 day or two, and think, perhaps, I have been walking too 
 much." 
 
 " I will go with you, dear St. Isaac," was Mrs. Carleton's 
 honeyed answer ; and Frederick St. John did not like to see 
 the gratified look that illumined his brother's face as he thanked 
 her. 
 
 They went out. Georgina disappeared within the apart- 
 ments of Mrs. St. John, to write a long-delayed letter to her 
 motlier ; and Frederick buried himself and his thoughts in the 
 shadiest nook of his painting-room — for he had one at Castle 
 Wafer. He had intended to go out shooting that morning, 
 after breakfast, in his lazy fashion, for September was passing ; 
 but he felt in no mood for it now. A horrible dread had taken 
 possession of him — that, not interfered with, his brother would 
 be led on to marry her. 
 
 Not interfered with ! Who was to interfere ? In moments 
 of difficulty we always think, " If the case were different, I
 
 A TELEGRAM. 397 
 
 could meet it." He was thinking so. '■ If I were not Isaac's 
 heir, then I might speak out fearlessly. As it is— it would 
 appear as though I interfered from interested motives ; and I 
 cannot do it." 
 
 Perhaps he was right. He might have seen his way more 
 clearly, had there been tangible proof to bring forward con- 
 cerning Mrs. Carleton's state of mind ; but there was none. 
 To say, " I fear she is not quite sane, or that she may hereafter 
 become insane," would naturally be met by the question, 
 " What grounds have you for thinking so ? " — and he had 
 really no good grounds to advance. And yet he felt that 
 Isaac ought to be warned, lest he should compromise himself. 
 
 Grumbling at the untowardness of things, tired to death 
 with worry, flinging a palette here, a painting there, striding 
 the room with slow and uneven steps, Mr. St. John contrived 
 somehow to live through the morning. Suddenly, when he 
 was stretching himself, and rather wishing for wings that he 
 might fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, it occurred to 
 him that he would speak to Honour. The girl had once 
 dropped some inadvertent words in his hearing, and she might 
 be able to tell him more. It seemed that he would give half 
 his own undoubted inheritance to set the question at rest. 
 
 He rang the bell, and told the servant who answered it to 
 send Honour to him. He had not seen the girl, as far as he 
 remembered, since his present sojourn ai home. The fact 
 was, Honour's duties had been changed, and lay downstairs 
 now, instead of above. She had given up the place of house- 
 maid, which she found did not suit her, to become assistant to 
 the housekeeper, and was learning cooking and confectionery. 
 Not once in six months now would her duties take her up the 
 grand staircase, or bring her in contact with the guests. 
 
 "Where have you been hiding yourself?" asked Mr. St. 
 John, when she appeared in obedience to his orders. " I 
 never see you by any chance." 
 
 Honour explained now. She looked just the same as ever, 
 and she still wore mourning for her beloved Benja. 
 
 " Honour, I want to ask you a question. And you must 
 answer it, for it is essential that you should do so. But you 
 may rely upon my discretion, and no trouble shall accrue to 
 you from it. You once spoke a word or two which led me to 
 infer that your late mistress, Mrs. Carleton St. John, was not 
 altogether of sound mind. Did you mean what you said ? "
 
 398 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Honour paused. Not from fear of speaking, but in doubt 
 what to say. Mr. St. John, attributing it to the former motive, 
 again assured her that she might trust him. 
 
 " It is not that, sir ; it is that I don't well know how to 
 answer you. I remember what I said — you were asking me 
 about that dreadful night, saying that from the manner in 
 which he had been burnt to death it looked as though some- 
 body had done it for the purpose; and I answered, in the 
 moment's haste, that nobody could have done that, unless it 
 was Mrs. St. John in her madness." 
 
 "But did you mean anything. Honour? That is the point 
 to be considered now." 
 
 " I did, and I didn't, sir. I had seen my mistress two or 
 three times in a most awful passion ; a passion, sir, that you 
 would hardly believe possible in a lady, and I meant that if 
 she had done it, it must have been in one of those mad fits of 
 passion. But I did not really mean that she had done it," 
 resumed Honour, " and I could have bitten my tongue out 
 afterwards for answering so carelessly ; it was the very thing Mrs. 
 DarHng warned me against. There was no reason for sup- 
 posing the calamity to have been anything but pure accident." 
 
 " What had Mrs. Darling warned you against ?" 
 ' " It occurred in this way, sir. After it was all over and the 
 poor lamb buried, I had brain fever ; and they tell me I made 
 all sorts of wild accusations in it, amidst others that my 
 mistress had set fire to Benja and bolted the door upon him. 
 After I got well, Mrs. Darling told me of this. Nothing could 
 be kinder than what she said, but she warned me never to 
 breathe such words again. I should not have had such a 
 thought, even in my delirium, but for the bolted doors ; I 
 couldn't get over that at the time ; but I came to the same 
 conclusion at last as other people — that poor Benja must have 
 fastened the one to keep me out, and that the other was not 
 bolted at all. It's likely enough, for I never was in such a 
 flurry before, smelling the burning so strong." 
 
 " And in your delirium you accused your mistress of having 
 caused the mischief?" 
 
 "So they tell me, sir. How I came to fancy such wicked 
 thoughts is the wonder. It's true that she was always jealous 
 of Benja after her own child was born, always hated him ; and 
 I suppose I remembered that, even in my unconsciousness. 
 Not an hour before the accident she had beaten him cruelly."
 
 A TELEGRAM. 399 
 
 ^'•Beaten him I" interrupted Mr. St. John. 
 
 "She did, sir. It's over now, and 1 said nothing about it : 
 where was the use? Well, all these things must have got 
 jumbled together in my poor fevered brain, and caused me to 
 say what I did. I was very sorry for it, sir, when I got well ; I 
 should never have thought of such a thing in my senses." 
 
 "Then — although you used the word ' madness,' you never 
 had cause to think her really insane ? " 
 
 " Oh no, never. In those frightful passions she was as one 
 mad, sir, but they were over directly. " I hope you'll pardon 
 me, sir, for having been so foolish as to say it." 
 
 "Nay, Honour, it is nothing to me. We all make slips 
 occasionally in talking. That's all I wanted to ask you." 
 
 She turned to leave the room. Mr. St. John took a rai)id 
 summary in his mind of what he had heard. It seemed only 
 to increase his difficulties. There was not the slightest corro- 
 borative testimony as to her possible insanity ; but there were 
 other hints which tended to render her a most unfit wife for 
 Isaac. If 
 
 His reflections were brought to a sudden conclusion by a 
 scream outside. This studio of his was situated in an angle of 
 the staircase, where it was rather dark. Honour had not yet 
 closed the door : but the scream did not appear to have come 
 from her. He hastened out. 
 
 It had come from Mrs. Carleton. Standing in the opposite 
 angle, gathered closely against the wall, as if hiding from a 
 ghost, her eyes were fixed with a glare of terror upon Honour, 
 her face was white as death. She had just come in from the 
 drive with Sir Isaac, and was on her way to her room to take 
 off her bonnet for luncheon. Honour saw the effect her 
 appearance caused, and stood irresolute, curtseying, not liking 
 to go down, because she would have to brush past Mrs. 
 Carleton. Before Mr. St. John had recovered from his 
 astonishment, Prance came gliding up and took her mistress 
 by the arm. 
 
 " It's only Honour Tritton, ma'am ; do you not know her ? 
 You fool, why did you put yourself in her sight ! " added the 
 woman to Honour in whispered exasperation. " I told you to 
 keep out of it — that she didn't know you were here. The 
 sight q{ you cannot be pleasant to her remembrance." 
 
 Almost by force, as it seemed, she led her mistress away to 
 her bedroom and closed the door. A good vray down the
 
 400 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 corridor Mrs. Carleton's white face was turned back on 
 Honour, with its look of wild, desperate fear. 
 
 Mr. St. John seemed equally stunned with Honour. " What 
 is the meaning of this ? " he asked. 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know, sir," was the girl's answer, as she 
 burst into tears. 
 
 " Prance said she had warned you to keep out of Mrs. Carle- 
 ton's sight. Is that true ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, it's true. She said her mistress did not know I 
 was at Castle Wafer, and I had better take care and not show 
 myself to her." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 " I don't know, sir. All she said was that Mrs. Carleton St. 
 John was fearfully angry with me still, knowing that, but for 
 my carelessness in leaving the child he would be alive now. I 
 had kept out of her sight until to-day. But it seemed to me 
 now that she looked more terrified than angry." 
 
 As it had to Mr. St. John. Honour went out about her 
 business, and he felt bewildered with the complication of 
 events that seemed to be arising. There came down an 
 apology to the luncheon-room from Mrs. Carleton, delivered 
 by Prance. Her lady had a headache, brought on by being so 
 long in the hot sun without a parasol, and was now lying down. 
 
 " How sorry I am ! " exclaimed Sir Isaac. " She com- 
 plained of the sun when we were out." 
 
 Late in the afternoon, she came into the drawing-room, 
 dressed for dinner. Frederick happened to be there alone. 
 As a matter of politeness, he condoled with her on her indis- 
 position, hoping it was gone. 
 
 " Not quite. To tell you the truth, Mr. St. John," she con- 
 tinued in quiet, confidential tones, " the sight of that woman. 
 Honour Tritton, had as much to do with my headache as the 
 heat. You know who she was, I presume — nurse to my poor 
 little step-son ; the woman to whose unpardonable carelessness 
 his death was attributable. I have never been able to think of 
 the woman since without horror, and the unexpected sight of 
 her — for I had no idea she was at Castle Wafer — was almost 
 too much for me." 
 
 "She is one of the servants here," observed Frederick, not 
 very well knowing what else to answer. 
 
 " As I hear. I wonder Sir Isaac should have engaged her. 
 However, of course, that is no business of mine. I hope she
 
 A TELEGRAM. 401 
 
 will not come into my way again, for I have a perfect horror 
 of her. But for her wickedness, we might all still have been 
 happy at Alnwick." 
 
 She rose as she spoke, and went on the lawn. Mrs. St. 
 John was there. Sir Isaac was then in his own sitting-room, 
 and Frederick went in to him. The table was strewed with 
 papers, and he was writing rapidly. 
 
 "Look at this," he said to Frederick, holding out a letter, 
 and in his voice might be traced a sound of annoyance. " It 
 is incomprehensible how people can be so stupid." 
 
 " Are you writing to stop it ? " asked Frederick, when he had 
 read the note. 
 
 " I am writing ; but whether it will be in time to stop it, is 
 another matter. The letter only came by this afternoon's post." 
 
 " I should telegraph," said Frederick. 
 
 Sir Isaac laid down his pen. " It might be the better plan. 
 But you can say so little in a message." 
 
 "Do both," advised the younger brother. "I will go off at 
 once and send the message, and you can post your letter after- 
 wards. You will then have the satisfaction of knowing that all 
 has been done that can be done." 
 
 "Yes, that will be better. If you don't mind the trouble. 
 But you will hardly be back by dinner-time." 
 
 "Yes I shall. And as to trouble, Isaac, I think it's doing 
 me a kindness. I have been in a cross-grained mood all day, 
 for want perhaps of something to do.' 
 
 Sir Isaac wrote the message, and Frederick started with it, 
 leaping down the slopes buoyant as a schoolboy. It was a 
 sensible relief, perhaps, to what he had called his cross-grained 
 mood. He had only a short walk ; for the railway had now 
 been extended from Lexington, and its small station was not 
 far from the lodge gates of Castle Wafer. 
 
 Mr. St. John entered the little telegraph office. He gave in 
 his message, and was exchanging a few words with the clerk, 
 when the rustle of petticoats was heard, and a female voice 
 addressed the clerk in hurried accents. Mr. St. John at the 
 moment was behind the partition, and unseen by the new- 
 comer. 
 
 " Young man, can I send a telegraph off at once ? It's in a 
 hurry." 
 
 " You can send a telegram," responded the clerk. " Where's 
 it to ? " 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. 26
 
 403 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 *' Paris." 
 
 " What's the message ? " 
 
 " I've wrote it down here, so that there may be no mistake. 
 It's quite private, if you please, and must be kept so : a Httle 
 matter that don't concern anybody. And be particular, for it's 
 from Castle Wafer. Will it be in Paris to-night ? " 
 
 "Yes," said the clerk, confidently, as he counted the words. 
 
 "What's to pay?" 
 
 " Twelve-and-sixpence." 
 
 " Twelve-and-sixpence ! " repeated the voice. "What a 
 swindle." 
 
 " You needn't pay it if you don't like." 
 
 " But then the telegram would not go ?" 
 
 " Of course it wouldn't." 
 
 The clink of silver was.heard, dashed down upon the counter. 
 *' I can't stop to argue about the charge, so I must pay it," 
 grumbled the voice. " But it's a great shame, young man." 
 
 "The charges ain't of my fixing," responded the young man. 
 " Good afternoon, ma'am." 
 
 She bustled out again as hurriedly as she had come in, not 
 having seen Mr. St. John, or suspected that the wooden partition 
 had any one behind it. He went to the door, looked after 
 her, and recognized Prance : he thought he had not been mis- 
 taken in the voice. She was walking very fast indeed in the 
 direction of Castle Wafer. 
 
 " I must see that message, Jones," said Mr. St. John, turning 
 back into the little room. 
 
 Mr. Jones hesitated j but there was an air of quiet command 
 in the words — and the speaker was the heir of Castle Wafer. 
 He laid the written message on the desk. 
 
 ^^ Mary France to Mrs. Darling. 
 "Please come back as quick as you can, I don't like her 
 symptoms. I am afraid of something that I had better not 
 write down here." 
 
 "Is it to go, sir ? " asked the clerk. 
 
 " Oh yes, it is to go. Thank you. It's all right. I had a 
 reason for wishing to see it." 
 
 He walked back to the house ; not quickly, as Prance was 
 doing, but slowly and reflectively. Sufiicient food for reflec- 
 tion he had, in truth. They had not gone in to dinner ; and
 
 A TELEGRAM. 403 
 
 Georgina Beauclerc, her beautiful grey eyes sparkling with 
 excitement, crossed the lawn to meet him, wearing a blue silk 
 evening dress, and pearls in her hair. 
 
 " Oh, Frederick, guess the news ! It has come to me only 
 now. I won't tell it you unless you guess it." 
 
 He took both her hands in his, and gazed steadfastly into 
 her excited face. The blushes began to rise. 
 
 '• News — and I am to guess it ? Perhaps it is that you are 
 going to be a sober girl." 
 
 She laughed, and would have drawn her hands away. But 
 he held them still. 
 
 " I can't wait : I must tell you. Papa and mamma are on 
 their way home. They will be at the Rectory to-morrow night," 
 
 " How have you heard it ? " 
 
 " They have had news at the Rectory and sent up to tell me. 
 I am so glad 1 It seems ages and ages since I saw papa. Only 
 think how I might have been spared the trouble of writing that 
 long letter to mamma to-day, had I known ? " 
 
 " I am glad too," he said, his tone changing to seriousness. 
 " We shall get rid of you now." 
 
 One hasty glance at his face. What she saw there puzzled 
 her. He really did look as though he meant it. 
 
 " Why do you say that ? " 
 
 " Because it's the truth, I shall be glad when you are away 
 from here, safe in the dean's charge again." 
 
 There was an earnestness in his tone which caused her large 
 eyes to open. 
 
 " You have not been rude to me once this time until now," 
 she pouted. " Sir Isaac would not say that." 
 
 "Rude?" 
 
 " It is rude to tell me you want to get rid of me. I never 
 said a ruder thing to you than that, in my wildest days." 
 
 " I do want it," he answered, laughing. But he laid his hand 
 upon her head as he spoke, and looked fondly at her. Her 
 eyelids fell. 
 
 " You know I don't care for you, Georgina." 
 
 But the words were spoken as though he did care for her. 
 Georgina ran away from him into the drawing-room. He 
 followed, and found them going in to dinner, Charlotte Carleton 
 leaning on the arm of Sir Isaac. 
 
 " What are you going to do with Alnwick, Sir Isaac ? "
 
 4o; ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 The question came from Mrs. Carleton, and it may be that it 
 took Sir Isaac somewhat by surprise, after her previous avoid- 
 ance of the subject. They were at dessert, not on this same 
 day, but on the next, for four-and-twenty hours have gone on. 
 
 " In what way do you mean ? " Sir Isaac asked, considera- 
 tion very distinguishable in his tone. But it was called up by 
 the subject alone. 
 
 " Shall you ever live at it ? " 
 
 " I am not sure. I have a place in the North, you know, 
 hitherto held in reserve should I leave Casde Wafer." 
 
 " But you would never leave Castle Wafer ! " 
 
 '* As its master, yes, should Frederick marry. It has always 
 been my intention to resign it to him. But I dare say they 
 would have me as their guest for six months of the year." 
 
 Her handsome face was bent downwards ; her raven hair, 
 with the perfumed white rose in it, was very close to her host. 
 
 " Is he likely to marry ? " 
 
 " Not that I am aware of I wish he was 1 " 
 
 " Let him take Alnwick as a residence, and remam yourself 
 at Castle Wafer. The idea of your having to quit this beautiful 
 place when you have made it what it is ! " 
 
 Sir Isaac smiled. " Frederick says as you do, Mrs. Carleton. 
 He protests he will never reign at Castle Wafer so long as I 
 live. It may end in our living here together, two old bachelors ; 
 or, rather, an old bachelor and a young one." 
 
 "But shall you never marry?" she softly asked. . "Why 
 should you not form ties of your own ? Oh, Sir Isaac, it is 
 what every one would wish you to do." 
 
 Sir Isaac slightly shook his head. Frederick St. John's ears 
 were strained to catch the conversation, although he was giving 
 his attention to Miss Beauclerc. 
 
 " Do you know what I should like to do with Alnwick ? " — 
 and Sir Isaac's voice dropped to a whisper. " I should like to 
 see you in it." 
 
 A streak of crimson crossed her cheek at the words. " I 
 never, never could live again at Alnwick. Oh, Sir Isaac " — 
 and the handsome face was raised pathetically to his — " think 
 of the trouble it brought me ! You could not expect me to 
 go back to it." 
 
 He answered the look with eyes as pitying as her own. 
 
 " Give Alnwick to your brother. Sir Isaac. Remain yourself 
 at Castle Wafer : never think of leaving it."
 
 A TELEGRAM. 405 
 
 "You like Castle Wafer ? " 
 
 " I never was in any place that 1 liked so much." 
 
 " Then you must not run away from it," said Sir Isaac, 
 smiling. 
 
 " I don't want to run away from it," she answered, her eyes 
 lifted pleadingly to his. " 1 have nowhere to run to. It is 
 so hard — so very hard to make a fresh home ! And I have so 
 little to make one with. I lost all when I lost Alnwick." 
 
 A movement. Mrs. St. John was rising, and Frederick gave 
 his mother a mental blessing as he opened the door. Sir 
 Isaac passed the claret to him as he sat down, and he poured 
 out a glass mechanically, but did not touch it. In the last 
 twenty-four hours his doubts, as to Mrs. Carleton's designs on 
 Sir Isaac, had become certainties, and his spirit was troubled. 
 
 " You have been inviting Mrs. Carleton to prolong her stay 
 here, Isaac ? " 
 
 " I invited her, when she first came, to stay as long as she 
 liked," was Sir Isaac's reply. " I hope she will do so." 
 
 "Do you like her?" 
 
 " Very much indeed. I liked her the first time I ever saw 
 her. Poor thing ! so meek, so gentle, and so unfortunate ! she 
 has all my sympathy." 
 
 Frederick St. John took up his dessert-knife and balanced 
 it on one of his fingers, supremely unconscious of his actions. 
 He by no means saw his way clear to saying Avhat he should 
 like to say. 
 
 "She urges me to give you Alnwick as a residence, Fred." 
 
 " She is very generous," returned Fred : and Sir Isaac did 
 not detect the irony of the remark. " I heard her say it would 
 be a sin for you to quit Castle Wafer ; or something to that 
 effect. It has been always my own opinion, you know, Isaac." 
 
 " We shall see." 
 
 " Isaac, I am going to be rather bold, and attack one of 
 your — I had almost said prejudices. You like Charlotte 
 Carleton. I don't like her." 
 
 "Not like her!" 
 
 " No, I don't. And I am annoyed beyond measure at her 
 staying on here, with no chance, as far as I can see, of her 
 leaving. Annoyed, for — for your sake." 
 
 The words evidently surprised Sir Isaac. He turned his 
 keen eyes upon the speaker. Frederick's were not lifted from 
 the balancing knife.
 
 4o6 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " V/hat do you see in her to dislike ? " 
 
 " For one thing, I don't think she's sincere. For 
 another " 
 
 Down fell the knife on the dessert-plate, chipping a piece 
 off its edge. The culprit was vexed. Sir Isaac smiled. 
 
 " The old action, Fred. Do you remember breaking that 
 beautiful plate of Worcester porcelain in the same way ? " 
 
 " I do : and how it vexed my mother, for it spoilt the set. 
 They had better not put me a knife and fork ; make me go 
 without, as they do the children. I am sure to get playing 
 with them." 
 
 " But about Mrs. Carleton ? Go on with your catalogue of 
 grievances against her." 
 
 When the mind is hovering in the balance, how a word, 
 a tone, will turn it either way ! The slight sound of amuse- 
 ment, apparent in Isaac's voice, was a very mockery to his 
 listener ; and he went on, hating his task more than before, 
 almost inclined to give it up. 
 
 " For another thing, I was going to say, Isaac — I am not 
 sure that she is safie." 
 
 " You are not sure of — what ? " 
 
 "That Charlotte Carleton is quite in her sane senses." 
 
 Sir Isaac stared at his brother as though asking whether he 
 was in his. 
 
 " Are you jesting, Frederick ? " 
 
 " No. I am in sober earnest." 
 
 " Then perhaps you will tell me what grounds you have for 
 saying this." 
 
 And here was Frederick's dilemma. What grounds had he ? 
 None. The reasons that seemed weighty enough to his own 
 mind, were as nothing when spoken ; and it suddenly struck 
 him that he was not justified in repeating the gossip of a girl 
 as careless as Rose. 
 
 " I have seen a strange look in her face more than once," 
 he said; "a wild, awful expression in her eyes, that I don't 
 believe could visit the perfectly sane. Isaac, on my honour I 
 don't speak without believing that I have good reason — and 
 that it lies in my duty to do so." 
 
 " I think you speak without grounds, Frederick," said Sir 
 Isaac, gravely. " Many of us look wild enough at times. I 
 have noticed nothing of this." 
 
 "She is on her guard before you."
 
 A TELEGRAM. 407 
 
 " That is nonsense. Insane people are no more on tlieir 
 guard before one person than another. Did you go to sleep 
 and dream this ? " 
 
 Frederick winced. He saw that Isaac was laughing at 
 him. " There are other indications," he said. 
 
 " What are they ? " 
 
 Could he answer? Could he tell the doubt, spoken by 
 Georgina — that the lady had been in her room in the night ? 
 Could he tell of the meeting with Honour on the stairs ? Of 
 the telegram he had surreptitiously read ? And if he did, what 
 proofs were they ? Georgina might have had nightmare : Mrs. 
 Carleton's horror at sight of Honour was not unnatural : and 
 Prance's telegram need not refer to her mistress. No ; it was 
 of no use mentioning these : they might weaken rather than 
 strengthen Isaac's belief. 
 
 " Isaac, I am almost sorry that I spoke to you," he resumed. 
 " To my own mind, things are pretty conclusive, but I suppose 
 they would not be so to yours." 
 
 " Certainly not, unless you have other grounds than ' looks ' 
 to go upon. Why did you mention the matter at all ? " 
 
 Frederick was silent. The true motive — the fear that Isaac 
 might be drawn into marrying her — he could not reveal. He 
 might have been misconstrued. 
 
 " Did you enter on this to prejudice me against her ? " 
 
 " Well — yes ; in a sense I did." 
 
 " That you might get her away from Castle Wafer ? " 
 
 " Yes, also." 
 
 " Then all I can say is, I don't understand you : unless, 
 indeed, you are more insane than she is. She may stop here 
 for ever if she likes. Remember, I enjoy the revenues that 
 were once hers. And please don't attempt anything of this 
 sort again, Frederick." 
 
 Sir Isaac left the dining-room as he spoke, and Frederick 
 took his hat and went out, his veins tingling with a sense of 
 shame and failure. He cou/d not speak to more effect than 
 he had spoken now ; that wretched self-consciousness withheld 
 him : and yet he felt that Isaac ought to be warned. AVere he 
 indeed to marry her, and find out afterwards that she was 
 insane, Frederick believed that it would kill him. 
 
 Ill at ease, he strode on towards the Rectory, Georgina 
 having exacted a promise from him that he would go and learn 
 at what hour Dr. and Mrs. Beauclerc were exnected. Thev
 
 4o8 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 had already arrived. The dean was in his study alone, his 
 genial face bent over sundry letters he was opening. A few 
 threads of silver mingled now with his light auburn hair, and 
 his shoulders were slightly stooping ; but his eyes, the very 
 counterpart of his daughter's, were frank and benevolent as 
 ever, and his hand was as cordial. 
 
 Losing his own father at an early age, and being much with 
 Dean Beauclerc, it is possible that Frederick St. John had 
 insensibly grown to look upon him almost in the light of 
 a father. Certain it was, that as he shook hands now with the 
 dean, an impulse came over him to confide his trouble to him. 
 None would give him wiser and more honest counsel than this 
 good man. With Frederick St. John to think of a thing was 
 to do it impulsively ; and, without an instant's deliberation, he 
 entered on his story. Not, however, mentioning Georgina as 
 in any way connected with it. 
 
 The dean listened attentively to its conclusion, and shook 
 his head. " Very slight grounds indeed, my young friend, on 
 which to suspect a woman of insanity." 
 
 " I know it," answered Frederick ; '' there lies my stumbling- 
 block. Were they only a little stronger, I should feel more 
 at liberty to pursue any course of action that might appear 
 advisable." 
 
 " Your chief fear is — if I take your meaning — that this lady 
 is making herself too agreeable to Sir Isaac." 
 
 " Yes ; but pray don't misunderstand me, Dr. Beauclerc," 
 was the eager rejoinder. " Were she a person likely to bring 
 Isaac happiness, I would further the matter to the utmost ; I 
 would indeed. Do you not see how difficult it is for me to 
 interfere ? Ninety-nine persons out of a hundred would say I 
 did so from interested motives ; a fear of losing the inheritance. 
 I declare before Heaven, that it is not so : and that I have only 
 my brother's happiness at heart. He is one of the justest men 
 living, and if he were to marry, I know he would first of all 
 secure me an ample fortune." 
 
 " My opinion is that he never will marry," said the dean, 
 " I don't know. I have the fear upon me ; the fear of her. 
 Were he to marry her, and afterwards discover that she was 
 not quite right, I believe it would kill him. You know, sir, his 
 great sensitiveness." 
 
 "Just go over again what you have said," returned the 
 dean. " I mean as to Mrs, Carleton's symptoms."
 
 A TELEGRAM. 409 
 
 Frederick St, John did so. He related wliat Rose had told 
 him ; he mentioned the wild and excited looks he had himself 
 observed in Mrs. Carleton ; he spoke of meeting Honour on 
 the stairs ; of the telegram sent by Prance. Somewhat sus- 
 picious circumstances, perhaps, when taken together, but each 
 one nothing by itself. " Nevertheless, I believe in them," he 
 concluded. " I believe that she is not sane." 
 
 " I wonder if there has ever been insanity in her familv ? " 
 mused the dean — who by no means saw things with Frederick's 
 eyes. " Let me see — who was she ? " 
 
 "She was a Miss Norris. Daughter of Norris, of Norris 
 Court. Mrs. Darling " 
 
 " Oh, to be sure," interrupted the dean, as recollection came 
 to him. " I knew her father. I was once a curate in that 
 neighbourhood." 
 
 Mr. St. John looked up at the high-church dignitary before 
 him. " Yoii once a curate ! " 
 
 The dean laughed. " We must all begin as curates, 
 Frederick." 
 
 The young man laughed also. " You knew Mr. Norris, 
 then ? " 
 
 "Yes; slightly. I once dined at his house. My church 
 was on the confines of Alnwick parish, not very far from Norris 
 Court. Mr. Norris died just as I was leaving. He died rather 
 suddenly, I think. I know it took the neighbourhood by 
 surprise. And, if I remember rightly, there seemed to be some 
 mystery attaching to his death." 
 
 •' What did he die of? " 
 
 " No one knew. It was in that that the mystery lay. Report 
 said he died of fever, but Mr. Pym, the surgeon who attended 
 him, told me it was not fever; though he did not say what it 
 was." 
 
 " Is that Pym of Alnwick ? " 
 
 " Mr. Pym was in practice then at Alnwick. He may be 
 still, for aught I know." 
 
 " He is. I met him twice at Alnwick Hall when I went down 
 to the funerals ; George St. John's and poor Benja's. Isaac 
 was too ill to go each time, and I had to represent him. Do 
 you " — he paused a moment in hesitation, and then went on — 
 " think it likely that Mr. Norris died insane ? I am sure there 
 is no insanity on Mrs. Darling's side." 
 
 " I have no reason for thinking so," replied the dean. " I
 
 4IO ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 was in want of a servant at the time, and a man who had Hved 
 with Mr. Norris appUed to me for the situation. It was the 
 surgeon, Pym, who spoke to his character : Mrs. Norris was 
 ill and could not be seen. I engaged him. He had been the 
 personal attendant of Mr. Norris in his last illness." 
 
 " Did he ever say what Mr. Norris's disease was ? " 
 
 " No. He was very reserved. A good servant, but one of 
 the closest men I ever came across. I once asked him what 
 illness his master had died of, and he said fever. I observed 
 that Mr. Pym had told me it was not fever. He replied he 
 believed the illness had a little puzzled Mr. Pym, but he him- 
 self felt sure it was fever of some description ; there could be 
 no doubt whatever about it." 
 
 " Is he with you now ? " 
 
 " No, poor fellow, he is dead. My place was too hard for 
 him, for I kept only one man then, and he left me for a 
 lighter one. After that he went back to his late mistress, 
 who had just married Colonel Darling. A little later I heard 
 of his death." 
 
 Frederick St. John was paying no attention to this last item 
 of explanation : he had fallen into a train of thought. The 
 dean looked at him. 
 
 " Dr. Beauclerc, if any one could throw light upon this 
 subject, it is Pym. I wish you would write and ask him." 
 
 " Ask him what ? " 
 
 " What Mr. Norris really died of. It might have been 
 insanity." 
 
 " People don't generally die of insanity." 
 
 " But there's no harm in writing. If you have no objection." 
 
 " I'll think it over," said the dean, t 
 
 " And now I must go back," said Frederick, rising. "Will 
 you walk with me, and see Georgina ? " 
 
 " Ah, Frederick, you know how to tempt me ! I would walk 
 further than to Castle Wafer to see her. My only darling : I 
 believe no one in the world knows her real worth." 
 
 They went out together. Looking into the drawing-room 
 for a minute first of all, to tell Mrs. Beauclerc. She was there 
 with Miss Denison, a middle-aged lady who had come home 
 with them for a long visit, and who was one of the betes noires 
 of Georgina's life. 
 
 Georgina was watching : whether for the possible sight of her 
 father, or for the more certain one of his companion — there
 
 A TELEGRAM. 411 
 
 she stood, half in, half out of the open French window. 
 Frederick stole a march upon her. He made the dean creep 
 round the corner of the house, so that she did not see them 
 until they were close upon her. He watched the meeting ; he 
 saw the clinging, heartfelt embrace, the glad tears rising to 
 her eyes : never after that could he doubt the girl's loving 
 nature. Perhaps, with all her lightness, he had not doubted 
 it before. 
 
 " And where's mamma. Could she not also come ? " 
 
 " I left her to entertain Miss Denison." 
 
 Georgina gave a scream. " Papa ! You have never brought 
 /ler home ! " 
 
 " Mamma has done so. She has come for two months, 
 Georgie." 
 
 Georgie groaned. " Then I shall remain at Castle Wafer." 
 
 " No, you won't," cried Frederick, and then hastened to 
 turn his apparent discourtesy into a laugh. " We wouldn't keep 
 you, Georgina." 
 
 " And I could not spare you," said the dean. 
 
 They entered the room, Georgina — who so proud as she ? — ■ 
 on her father's arm. Sir Isaac, who was playing chess with 
 Mrs. Carleton, rose to welcome him. Mrs. Carleton rose also. 
 She had never seen the Dean of Westerbury, and the intro- 
 duction took place. Calm, impassive, perfectly self-possessed, 
 she stood ; exchanging a few words of courtesy with the dean, 
 her handsome features looking singularly attractive, one of 
 the beautiful crystal chessmen held between her slender 
 fingers. Not a woman in the world could look much less 
 insane than did Charlotte Carleton ; and the dean turned his 
 eyes on Frederick, in momentary wonder at that gentleman's 
 hallucination. 
 
 Georgina stole up to the master of Castle Wafer. 
 
 " You'll let me stay here, won't you, Sir Isaac ? " 
 
 " You know I will. Zef you stay ! " 
 
 " But you'll ask papa to let me stay?" 
 
 " My dear, yes. Does he want to take you away? " 
 
 " Of course he will want it. And — do you know what 
 mamma has done? Brought home Avith her that horrible Miss 
 Denison. I wonder papa let her. The last time she was with 
 us — but that was at Westerbury — there was no peace in the 
 house for her. She was always quarrelling with me, and of 
 course I quarrelled with her again. Nothing that I did was
 
 412 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 right ; and one day she actually got mamma to lock me in my 
 room for two hours, because she said I had been insolent to 
 her. You'll get leave for me to stay, Sir Isaac ? " 
 
 He gave her a reassuring smile, and sat down to chess 
 again. The dean talked with Mrs. St. John, Georgina flitted 
 incessantly from them to the chess-players, making every one 
 as merry as she was ; Frederick alone seemed quiet and 
 abstracted. He sat apart, near the tea-table, a cup before 
 him, as if tea-drinking was his whole business in life. 
 
 The evening wore on. When ten o'clock struck, the dean 
 rose, saying he had not supposed it to be so late. 
 
 " You will spare Georgina to us a little longer ? " said Sir 
 Isaac. They were still at chess, of which it seemed Mrs. 
 Carleton never tired ; and he rose as he spoke to the dean. 
 
 " Until to-morrow. She must conie home then." 
 
 "Oh, papa!" broke in the really earnest voice, "do let me 
 stay longer. You know why I wish to — it's because of that 
 Miss Denison." 
 
 The dean looked grave. 
 
 " Only a few days longer, papa ; just a few days. Then I 
 will come home. It will take me all that time to get over the 
 shock." 
 
 But there was a merry twinkle in her eye; and the dean 
 smiled. Whilst he was shaking hands with Mrs. Carleton, 
 Cicorgina turned suddenly to Frederick. " Won't you say a 
 word for me ? You once called Miss Denison an old hag 
 yourself" 
 
 " It must have been when I was a rude boy," he answered. 
 
 "But won't you?" 
 
 " No," he said, in a low and unmistakably serious tone. " I 
 would rather you did not stay, Georgina." 
 
 While Georgina was recovering from her surprise, she became 
 conscious of some commotion in the room. Turning, she saw 
 a lady in travelling costume, and recognized Mrs. Darling. 
 Her appearance was exciting universal astonishment : Frederick 
 in particular rubbed his eyes to be sure he was not dreaming. 
 How quickly she had answered the telegram ! 
 
 It happened that the dean, the only one of the party not 
 pressing forward either in surprise or welcome, was close to 
 Mrs. Carleton, and had leisure to note her looks, though 
 indeed chance alone caused his glance to fall upon her in the 
 first instance. Instead of pressing forward, Mrs. Carleton
 
 A TELEGRAM. 413 
 
 drew back, seemed to stagger ; her face turned livid, her eyes 
 were ablaze with a wild, curious light; and one of the costly- 
 chessmen fell and was broken in pieces. It almost seemed to 
 have been crushed in her • hand. Another had seen it too, 
 Frederick St. John. Was it a habit, then, of hers to be so 
 unpleasantly excited under any surprise? Or were these in- 
 deed signs of incipient insanity ? If the crystal had broken in 
 her hand and not in the fall, she must possess a strength beyond 
 that of ordinary women. He, Frederick St. John, had just 
 time to see that the dean's gaze was riveted upon her, before 
 the stir became universal, every one talking at once, Mrs. 
 Darling laughing gaily. 
 
 She knew she should take them by surprise, she was saying, 
 as she shook hands with one and another; had been enjoying 
 it in anticipation the whole day. From a communication 
 received from her cottage at Alnwick, she found her orders 
 were wanted in some repairs that were being done ; so had 
 started quite on a moment's impulse ; and — here she was, 
 having determined to take Castle Wafer on her way, and see 
 whether Charlotte was ready to return home. Rose ? Oh, 
 Rose was quite well, and staying with some friends in Paris, 
 the Castellas. Darling Charlotte ! How well she v/as looking ! 
 
 Darling Charlotte had recovered from her emotion, and was 
 herself again, — calm, sweet, impassive Charlotte. After sub- 
 mitting to the embrace of her mother, she turned in contrition 
 to Sir Isaac. Frederick and Georgina were both stooping to 
 gather up the broken crystal. 
 
 Would Sir Isaac ever forgive her ? That lovely set of chess- 
 men ! And how it came to slip out of her hand, she could 
 not imagine : how it came to break on the soft carpet (unless 
 indeed it struck against the foot of the chess-table) she could 
 not tell. In vain Sir Isaac begged her not to think more of 
 so trifling a misfortune : it seemed that she could not cease 
 her excuses. 
 
 " Mrs. Carleton ! look at your hand. You must have broken 
 the bishop yourself." 
 
 The words came from Georgina Beauclerc. The fair white 
 hand had sundry cuts within it, and the red spots oozing from 
 them had caught Georgina's gaze as she rose from the carpet. 
 One angry, evil glance from Mrs. Carleton's eyes at the out- 
 spoken young lady, and then she resigned the white hand to 
 Sir Isaac to be bound up.
 
 414 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " Strange, that we rarely can tell how these things happen," 
 she said, with a genial smile. " Miss Beauclerc must have a 
 curious idea of strength, to suppose my fingers could have 
 broken that bishop. Thank you very much, Sir Isaac." 
 
 Frederick St. John went out with the dean. " I do hope 
 you Avill write to Mr. Pym ? " he said. 
 
 " I intend to," answered the dean. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 WALKING OUT TO DINNER. 
 
 If Mrs. Darling's hurried visit to England was caused by the 
 fact of the repairs in progress at her cottage, being at a stand- 
 still, the repairs must be at a stand-still yet ; for the lady did 
 not go farther than Castle Wafer. On the morning following 
 her arrival, Sir Isaac politely asked whether she would not 
 remain a few days with them before going on ; and Mrs. 
 Darling took him at his word and did remain. Georgina also 
 remained, and things seemed to go on very smoothly and 
 quietly, but Mrs. Carleton remained a great deal in her own 
 room ; and to Mr. Frederick St. John's eyes her mother's 
 face wore a strangely haggard, anxious look. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Carleton well ? " he asked her one day. 
 
 " Quite well, thank you," responded Mrs. Darling, stooping, 
 as she spoke, to pluck a geranium. 
 
 " I have not liked her look at times," continued Frederick, 
 boldly. " I was fearing she was not in — altogether good 
 health." 
 
 "She is in excellent health," was the reply, and Mrs. Darling 
 faced the speaker with a look intended to express surprise. 
 " Charlotte was always strong. She and Rose are like myself, 
 blessed with rude health : I cannot say as much for the other 
 two. I want to take Charlotte away with me; but she does 
 not feel inclined to come, and was quite angry when she saw 
 me arrive. She is very happy here." 
 
 No more was said, for Mrs. Darling sauntered leisurely away. 
 Frederick St. John had gained nothing by his move. 
 
 The dean, who had written to Mr. Pym, received in due 
 course that gentleman's answer. Mr. Norris, of Norris Court,
 
 WALKING OUT TO DINNER. 415 
 
 had died mad. The widow, subsequently Mrs. Darling, had 
 hushed the matter up for the sake of her child, and succeeded 
 in keeping it secret. He, Mr. Pym, had never disclosed it to 
 mortal ears; but the high character of the Dean'of Westerbury 
 was such that he knew he might safely confide the fact to him. 
 Indeed, from the tenour of the dean's letter, he felt there 
 might be some essential reason for not remaining silent. 
 
 "You see," cried Frederick, when the dean showed him the 
 letter, "I was right." 
 
 " Nay," dissented the dean. " Right as to your suspicion 
 that madness was in the family ; but this does not prove that 
 it has yet attacked Mrs. Carleton." 
 
 " I suppose it would not prove it to most minds ; it does to 
 mine, in a very great degree. You will at least admit that this 
 renders her a most undesirable wife for Isaac." 
 
 " Granted. But, Frederick, my opinion is that Sir Isaac is 
 in just as much danger from her as you are, and no more. 
 Rely upon it he has no idea of marrying." 
 
 Frederick was silent. In a sense he agreed wdth the dean; 
 but he knew how subtle is the constant companionship of a 
 designing and attractive woman ; and that the danger was all 
 the greater where that companionship had been previously held 
 aloof from, as in the case of Sir Isaac. 
 
 Two or three days passed on, and nothing occurred to dis- 
 turb the peace even of fanciful Frederick St. John. The old 
 routine of life %vas observed at Castle Wafer, varied with visits 
 to the Rectory, or with the Rectory's visits back aga^n. But for 
 the suspicion he was making so great a trouble of, Mr. St. 
 John would have felt supremely happy. A strangely bright 
 feeling was stealing over him ; a feeling whose source he did 
 not question or analyze. The influence of Georgina was 
 quietly making its way in his heart ; perhaps, unconsciously to 
 himself, it had ever in a degree lain there. 
 
 Mrs. Darling sat in her room, writing letters. Mrs. Carleton 
 was with her, looking from the window, the folds of her silver- 
 grey brocade rustling with every movement. She wore very 
 slight mourning now. 
 
 " : 
 
 Charlotte, my dear child," suddenly cried Mrs. Darling, " I 
 am writing to the cottage. Let me once again ask you when 
 you will be ready to go with me ? " 
 
 " Never — to Alnwick. When I left the cottage to become 
 George St. John's wife, I left it, as a residence, for ever."
 
 4i6 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 "Where will you go? Will you go into Berkshire? — will 
 you go to London ? — to Brighton ? — to Paris ? Only say where 
 — I don't wish to force you to Alnwick." 
 
 " Mamma, I beg you not to worry me on this point. I am 
 very comfortable at Castle Wafer, and you need not try to force 
 me away from it. It is lost labour." 
 
 Mrs. Darling made no reply. It would have been useless. 
 All her life she had found it "lost labour" to endeavour to 
 force Charlotte to do anything against her will ; and sometimes 
 she felt the yoke upon her was a very heavy one. She bent 
 over her writing again in silence. Presently Charlotte spoke, 
 abruptly : 
 
 " How long is that girl going to remain here ?" 
 
 Mrs. Darling's train of thought just then was roaming to 
 many things, pleasant or unpleasant, and she thought " that 
 girl " must mean Honour Tritton. Charlotte's eyes were ablaze 
 with light at the mistake ; and Mrs. Darling could have bitten 
 her tongue out for her incaution in mentioning the name. What 
 she next said, did not mend it. 
 
 " Charlotte, my darling, I really beg your pardon. I'm sure 
 I don't know how I came to think of her, unless it was that I 
 was talking to her this morning. You " 
 
 " Talking to her I " came the imperative interruption. " I 
 should like to know, mamma, what you can have to say 
 to her. If every one had their deserts, Honour Tritton 
 
 would be — would be What did she presume to say of 
 
 me ? " 
 
 " My dear Charlotte ! " cried the unfortunate mother, half 
 aghast at the tone in which the last sentence was spoken, " she 
 did not presume to speak of you at all. It was only a casual 
 meeting in one of the lower passages. She just dropped a 
 curtsey, and asked how I was : that was all." 
 
 " She presumed to put herself in my way the other day, that 
 woman ; I know that," scornfully returned Mrs. Carleton. 
 "But that it might be said I made too much of a trifle utterly 
 beneath me, I should ask Sir Isaac to banish her from Castle 
 Wafer." 
 
 '• Oh, Charlotte ! What, because she — she happened to 
 meet you ? " 
 
 " No. For the misery she wrought in the years gone by. I 
 wonder what brought her here — why she came ? " 
 
 Mrs. Darling had heard of the meeting with Honour on the
 
 WALKING OUT TO DINNER. 417 
 
 stairs, and knew as much of the scene as though she had been 
 present. She passed to another topic. 
 
 " Then it was of Miss Beauclerc you spoke, Charlotte ? " 
 
 "It was of Miss Beauclerc. I want to know 7vhat she stops 
 here for r 
 
 The low, impressive whisper in which this was spoken, 
 astonished Mrs. Darling. What had Charlotte got in her head 
 now ? 
 
 " My dear, it cannot matter to you whether she stays here or 
 whether she goes home." 
 
 " But it does matter : it matters very much. She is staying 
 as a spy upon me." 
 
 " A spy ? Charlotte ! " 
 
 "She is. She is doing what she can to turn Sir Isaac 
 against me." 
 
 " Oh, Charlotte ! Indeed you are mistaken. I am quite 
 sure she is doing nothing of the sort." 
 
 " I tell you yes. Look there ! " 
 
 Mrs. Darling rose in obedience, and glanced from the window 
 in the direction in which Charlotte had pointed. Georgina 
 Beauclerc, in her flowing dinner-dress of a clear white muslin, 
 was marching about with Sir Isaac, both her hands clasped 
 upon his arm, her pretty head and its silken hair almost touch- 
 ing his face as she talked to him. That Sir Isaac was bending 
 down to the fair head, a great deal of tender love in his face, 
 might be discerned even at this distance. 
 
 " He promised to ride out with me this afternoon ; he was 
 going on his pony, and I was to try Mr. St. John's grey horse, 
 and she came and took him from me. He gave me up for her 
 with scarcely a word of apology, and they have been away to- 
 gether for hours somewhere on foot. She cannot let him rest. 
 The moment she is dressed for dinner, you see, she lures him 
 to her side again. And you say she is not plotting against 
 me ? " 
 
 What could Mrs. Darling reply ? The idea had taken pos- 
 session of Charlotte, and she knew that no earthly argument 
 would turn it by so much as a hair's-breadth. The shadow of 
 a trouble that she should not have strength to combat fell 
 upon her ; and as Charlotte abruptly left the room, she took 
 a letter from her pocket and read it with a gleam of thank- 
 fulness, for it told of the speedy arrival of one who might be of 
 use. 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. -7
 
 4j8 ST. MARTIN'S EVE, 
 
 Mrs. Carleton descended, glancing to the left and right of 
 the broad staircase, into all its angles, over the gilded balus- 
 trades down on the inner hall, as had been her custom since 
 that encounter with Honour. Not with open look, but with 
 stealthy glance, as if she dreaded meeting the woman again. 
 She went into the drawing-room, and stood gazing through the 
 open window with covert glances, partially shielding herself 
 behind the blue satin curtains. Georgina was on the terrace 
 with Sir Isaac, and on them her regard was fixed. A gaze, 
 evil, bitter, menacing. Her eyes shone with a lurid light, her 
 lips were pale, and her hands were contracted as with irrepres- 
 sible anger. In the midst of these unwholesome signs, as if 
 instinct whispered to her that she was not alone, she turned 
 and saw, quietly seated at a table near, and as quietly regarding 
 her, Frederick St. John. 
 
 She came up to him at once, her brow smoothed to its ordi- 
 nary impassiveness. 
 
 " What a warm afternoon it has been, Mr. St. John ! " 
 "Very warm." 
 
 "You are ready for dinner early," she said, in allusion to his 
 notably late appearance for that meal ; often coming in after 
 they had sat down to table. 
 
 " I don't dine at home to-day. I am going with Miss Beau- 
 clerc to the Rectory." 
 
 " And Sir Isaac also ? " she quickly asked. 
 " I think not." 
 
 Sir Isaac and Georgina approached the window. They, with 
 Frederick, had walked to the Rectory that afternoon, and the 
 dean asked them to come in to dinner. It was very dull, he 
 said, with only Miss Denison, who generally contrived to act 
 as a wet blanket. So it was arranged that Georgina and Frede- 
 rick should go ; but Sir Isaac could not promise. It appeared 
 that Georgina was now urging him to accompany them. Her 
 voice was heard in the room. 
 
 " It is very uncharitable of you, Sir Isaac. You know what 
 papa said it v,'as for him, with that statue of a woman there. 
 If yoti were shut up in a house with a female Hottentot, and 
 you asked papa to come in as a relief, he would not think of 
 refusing." 
 
 " But I can't go," returned Sir Isaac, in laughing tones. " I 
 told the dean that Mrs. St. John was not well enough to come 
 down."
 
 WALKING OUT TO DINNER. 419 
 
 " And you will let me walk all that way without you ! It's 
 not kind, Sir Isaac. Suppose I get run away with ? There 
 may be kidnappers in the shrubbery." 
 
 " You will have a more efificient protector with you than 
 I could make; one young and powerful — I am old and 
 weak." 
 
 " Never old to me — never old to me. Oh, I wish you would 
 come ! " 
 
 " I wish I could, Georgina ; you know that when you leave 
 me, half my sunshine goes also. But I must head the table at 
 home, in the absence of Mrs. St. John : I cannot leave my 
 visitors." 
 
 " Tiresome people ! " apostrophized Georgina, in allusion to 
 the lady visitors. " I know you would rather be with us. I 
 shall tell papa that if he is fixed with Miss Denison, you are 
 fixed with Mrs. Carleton. I don't see how you would get 
 through your days with her just now, if it were not for me." 
 
 She stepped into the room, a saucy expression on her charm- 
 ing face ; a loving smile on Sir Isaac's. Mrs. Carleton was in 
 time to catch a glimpse of each as she swiftly glided away in 
 the distance ; and neither had the remotest suspicion that their 
 conversation had been overheard. 
 
 Frederick St. John rose. " I think we shall be late, Geor- 
 gina." 
 
 "Shall we ! I shall say it was your fault," cried the happy 
 girl, as she caught up her white mantle and straw hat from a 
 chair. " I'm ready now." 
 
 " Won't you put your cloak on ? " 
 
 " No. I am only taking it to come back in to-night. You 
 may carry it for me." 
 
 She placed it on his arm ; and with her face shaded only by 
 her little dainty parasol, they went out. Mrs. Carleton was at 
 one of the other windows watching the departure. 
 
 '^ Do you know the time, Georgina ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh — more than five, I suppose." 
 
 He held his watch towards her. It wanted only twenty-five 
 minutes to six. " Of course you can say it is my fault if you 
 like ; but Mrs. Beauelerc will be excessively angry with both 
 of us." 
 
 " Not as angry as Miss Denison will be," returned Georgina, 
 laughingly. " Fanciful old creature ! saying she gets indi- 
 gestion if she dines later than half-past five. If I were papa,
 
 420 ST. MARTINIS EVE. 
 
 I should let her dine alone, and order the regular dinner at 
 seven. See how quickly she'd come to her senses." 
 
 "If you were your papa you'd do just as he does" cried 
 Frederick. "And when you have a house of your own, 
 Georgina, you will be just as courteous as he is." 
 
 "Shall I? Not to Miss Denison. But I should take care 
 not to have disagreeable people staying with me. I wouldn't 
 have Mrs. Carleton, for instance." 
 
 " Do you think Mrs. Carleton disagreeable ? " he asked. " I 
 have heard you say you liked her." 
 
 " So I did at first. I pitied her. But she gets very dis- 
 agreeable. She looks at me sometimes as if she would hke to 
 kill me, and — see what she did yesterday." 
 
 Georgina extended her wrist towards her companion. There 
 was a blue mark upon it, as from pressure. 
 
 " How did she do this ! " he exclaimed, examining the wrist. 
 
 " Not purposely, of course , that is, not intending to hurt me. 
 I differed from her : it was about going out with Sir Isaac. 
 She said it was too hot for me, and I said the hotter the 
 pleasanter ; and she caught me by the wrist as I was running 
 away. I cried out with the pain ; indeed it was very sharp ; 
 and Sir Isaac heard it outside and looked back. She laughed 
 then, and so did I, and I ran away. This morning I saw that 
 my wrist had turned blue." 
 
 " Did you tell Isaac of this ? " 
 
 " I don't remember. Stay, though — I think I told him Mrs. 
 Carleton had been preaching morality to me, as connected with 
 sunstrokes and freckles," continued the careless girl. " Please 
 loose my hand, Mr. St. John." 
 
 He released her hand, saying nothing. Georgina floated on 
 by his side, her blue ribbons and her fair hair flashing in the 
 setting sun as they passed through the shrubbery. 
 
 " I think she must be frequently out of temper," continued 
 Georgina, alluding still to Mrs. Carleton. " Did you see her 
 as we passed the window just now? She looked so cross 
 at me." 
 
 " I presume she thinks she has cause for it," observed Mr. 
 St. John. 
 
 "What cause?" 
 
 " She is jealous of you." 
 
 " Jealous of me ? " 
 
 " Of you and Sir Isaac."
 
 WALKING OUT TO DINNER. 421 
 
 Georgina's grey eyes opened to their utmost width as she 
 stared at the speaker. 
 
 " Jealous of me and Sir Isaac ? Why, what could put such an 
 idea into her stupid head ? How could she be jealous of me, 
 in relation to Sir Isaac? She might as well be jealous of 
 papa." 
 
 " I suppose she thinks that she, as chief guest, ought to 
 receive more of the host's attention than any one else," he said, 
 not caring to be more explanatory. "And therefore she does 
 not like your monopolizing Isaac." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Georgina, turning up her pretty nose. "I 
 declare I thought you meant it in another light. I'll take up 
 Sir Isaac's attention all to-morrow, just to tease her." 
 
 He made no reply. He was thinking. It had not been his 
 fault that Georgina's stay at Castle Wafer was prolonged ; but 
 he had seen no feasible way of preventing it. And yet there 
 was always an undercurrent in his heart — a wish that she was 
 away from it, beyond the risk of any possible harm. 
 
 " Please put the mantle over my shoulders, Mr. St. John." 
 
 " Ah, you are getting cold I You should have put it on at 
 first." 
 
 '• Getting cold this warm afternoon ! Indeed no. But in 
 one mmute we shall be in the Rectory grounds, liable to meet 
 mamma or her charming guest. They would sing a duet all 
 dinner-time at my walking here in nothing but my dinner-dress. 
 Miss Denison comes out before dinner, and creeps round the 
 paths for half-an-hour. She calls it ' taking her constitutional.' 
 Thank you ; she can't find fault now." 
 
 Mrs. Beauclerc was a fretful lady of forty-five ; Miss Denison 
 was a fretful lady of somewhat more : and Georgina was greeted 
 with a shower of reproaches, for having kept dinner waiting. 
 She laid the blame on Mr. St. John ; and Miss Denison looked 
 daggers at him to her heart's content. 
 
 " I could not make him believe you were dining at the gothic 
 hour of half-past five," cried the imperturbable girl. " The more 
 I told him to hasten the less he did so. And, mamma, Mrs. 
 St. John says will we all go to Castle Wafer for the evening." 
 
 She stole a glance at him. He was standing calm, upright ; 
 a half-tender, half-reproving look cast upon her for her nonsense. 
 But he contradicted nothing. 
 
 The dean and Mr. St. John were sitting alone after dinner, 
 when a servant came in and said a gentleman was asking if he
 
 422 ST. MARTIN'S .EVE. 
 
 could see Dr. Beauclerc. The dean inquired who it was, but 
 the servant did not know : when he requested the name, the 
 gentleman said he would tell it himself to the doctor, 
 
 " You can show him in here," said the dean, who was one 
 of the most accessible men living. 
 
 The servant retired, and ushered in a little grey-haired man 
 in spectacles. The dean did not recognize him : Frederick 
 St. John did, and with some astonishment. It w^as Mr. Pym 
 of Alnwick. 
 
 He explained to the dean that a little matter of business had 
 brought him into the neighbourhood, and he had taken the 
 opportunity (following on the slight correspondence which had 
 just taken place between them) to call on Dr. Beauclerc. Dr. 
 Beauclerc — who was not addressed as "Mr. Dean" out of his 
 cathedral city as much as he was in it — inquired how long he 
 had been in the neighbourhood, and found he had only just 
 arrived by the evening train, — had come straight to the Rectory 
 from the station. 
 
 A suspicion crossed the dean's mind, and he spoke in 
 accordance with it. "Did Mr. Pym come from Alnwiciv on 
 purpose to see him ? " 
 
 " No," said the litde surgeon, taking the glass of wine the 
 dean passed to him, but declining other refreshment. " I 
 have been summoned to the neighbourhood of Lexington to 
 see a patient ; and as I was on the spot, I thought I would 
 call upon you, Dr. Beauclerc. My chief motive in doing so," 
 he added, after a brief pause, " was to inquire whether you 
 had any particular reason for asking me those questions." 
 
 The dean looked at Frederick St. John, as much as 
 to say, Shall we, or shall we not confide in this medical 
 man ? 
 
 " I do not inquire from motives of idle curiosity, Dr. Beau- 
 clerc," resumed the surgeon, marking the dean's hesitation. 
 " Believe me, I have an urgent reason for wishing to know." 
 
 " Better tell him everything," cried Frederick, who had read 
 the dean's look, and was vehement in his earnestness. "I 
 am sure Mr. Pym may be trusted ; and perhaps he can help 
 us with his advice." 
 
 "Very well," said the dean. "But you know, Frederick, 
 the suspicion is more yours than mine." 
 
 "Yes, yes; I take it all upon myself," was the young man's 
 impatient answer, so fearful was he of losing this new ally.
 
 WALKING OUT TO DINNER. 423 
 
 " Mr. Pym, you have known Mrs. Carlclon St. John all licr 
 Hfe, have you not? She was Charlotte Norris." 
 
 " Yes, it may be said that I have known her all her life. I 
 brought her into the world." 
 
 "Well, a disagreeable suspicion has recently come upon us 
 in regard to her — upon me, that is. An awful suspicion ; one 
 that I do not like to mention." 
 
 " What is it ? " cried the surgeon. 
 
 " I fear that she is showing symptoms of insanity." 
 
 Frederick St. John looked at Mr. Pym as he spoke, expect- 
 ing a start of surprise. Far from evincing any, that gentleman 
 quietly raised his wine to his lips, sipped it, and put the glass 
 down again, 
 
 "Ah," said he. "Well?" 
 
 Then Mr. St. John poured forth his tale. He who was 
 usually almost coldly impassive, who had every tone of his 
 voice, every pulse of his veins under control, seemed this 
 evening to have become all impulse and excitement. But in 
 telling his story, he grew gradually calm and cool, 
 
 Mr. Pym listened in silence. At the conclusion of the story 
 he waited a minute or two, apparently expecting to hear more, 
 but the narrator had ceased. He spoke then, 
 
 " You are sure about that telegram — that it was Prance who 
 sent it ? " 
 
 " Quite sure. There can be no mistake about that." 
 
 " A cautious woman," observed the surgeon, " She men- 
 tioned no name. You see it might have applied to any one 
 as much as to Mrs, Carleton." 
 
 "The very remark I made," interposed the dean, and it was 
 the first word he had spoken. " I tell ]\Ir. St. John that the 
 symptoms and facts he thinks so much of are very slight." 
 
 " Too slight to pronounce any one insane upon," said the 
 doctor. " Will you be so good as tell me, Mr. St. John, Avhat 
 ^rs/ gave rise to suspicion in your mind? It is a rare thing, 
 however eccentric our friends' actions may be, for us to take up 
 the notion that they are insane." 
 
 "What first gave rise to the suspicion in my mind?" re- 
 peated Frederick. " Why, I don't suppose I ever should have 
 thought of it but for — but I forgot to tell you that," he broke 
 off, suddenly remembering that he had omitted to mention 
 what Rose Darling had told him at Belport. 
 
 He related it now. The assertions of the nurse Brayford
 
 424 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 that Mrs. Carleton was mad ; her terror at the sight of the 
 lighted lanterns in the Flemish town on St. Martin's Eve. 
 Still Mr. Pym said nothing : he only took out a note-book and 
 entered something in it. 
 
 ^ " Can you not help us, Mr, Pym ? Do you not think she 
 must be insane ? " 
 
 " I cannot say that. But I may tell you that I have always 
 feared it for her." 
 
 " Her father died mad, you wrote word to the dean." 
 " He died raving mad. You have confided in me, and I see 
 no reason why I should not tell you all I know — premising, of 
 course, that it must not be repeated. His madness, as I 
 gathered at the time, was hereditary ; but he had been (unlike 
 his daughter) perfectly well all his life, betraying no symptoms 
 of it. I was sent for in haste one night to Norris Court. I 
 was only a young man then— thirty, perhaps ; I'm turned sixty 
 now. My predecessor and late partner, Mr. Jevons, had been 
 the usual attendant there, but he had retired from business, 
 and was very infirm. I thought I was wanted for Mrs. Norris, 
 whom I was to attend in her approachmg confinement ; but 
 when I reached the Court, I found what it was. ]\Ir. Norris 
 had suddenly become mad ; utterly, unmistakably mad ; and 
 Mrs. Norris, poor thing, was nearly as much so with terror. 
 He had always been of a remarkably jealous disposition ; some 
 slight incident had caused him to become that day jealous of 
 his wife, without, I am certain, the least foundation, and after 
 an awful scene, he attempted her life with his razor. In her 
 endeavour to escape from him, she dashed her hand through a 
 mirror, whether accidentally or purposely she could not after- 
 wards remember. Never shall I forget her dismay and terror 
 when I reached the Court. Her husband was tolerably quiet 
 then ; exhausted, no doubt, from violence ; and his own man, 
 James, was keeping guard over him. That night we had to 
 put him into a strait-waistcoat. Mrs. Norris, poor young 
 lady — and she was not twenty then— cried most bitterly as she 
 told me the tale of her husband's jealousy. She could not 
 imagine what had given rise to it. She had only received some 
 gentleman, a friend of theirs who had often called, and had sat 
 and talked with him in the drawing-room, as she would with 
 any other visitor; but the jealousy, as I explained to her, pre- 
 ceded the attack of madness. In three or four days the child 
 Charlotte was born. I took the baby in to Mr. Norris, thinking
 
 WALKING OUT TO DINNER. 425 
 
 it might possibly have a soothing effect upon him. It had just 
 the contrary — though it is unnecessary to recall minor particu- 
 lars now. He had seemed better that day, quite collected, 
 and his servant had removed the strait-waistcoat. An ac- 
 cession of violence came on at sight of the child ; he sprang 
 out of bed and attempted to seize it ; I put the baby down 
 under the bed, while I helped James to overpower his master ; 
 but it was the hardest struggle I had ever been engaged in. 
 Mr. Norris never was calm afterwards, and died in a few days, 
 raving mad." 
 
 "But," interrupted the dean, "how was it possible to keep 
 this state of things from transpiring in the house ? The 
 domestics understood, I believe, that their master died of 
 fever." 
 
 " True, Dr. Beauclerc. Fortunately the room to which Mr. 
 Norris was taken was shut in by other surrounding apartments, 
 and no sound penetrated beyond it. The servants were kept 
 away by a hint of infection ; a confidential man from an asylum 
 was had in to assist James and take turn in watching — the 
 servants supposing him to be merely a sick-nurse. Toor Mrs. 
 Norris entreated for her child's sake that the nature of its 
 father's malady might be suppressed, if possil)le ; and the secret 
 was kept. Whether it was well in the long-run that it should 
 be so kept, I have often asked myself." 
 
 Mr. Pym paused in thought. Frederick St. John interrupted 
 it. 
 
 "You say this madness was hereditary?" 
 
 " Mr. Jevons managed to get to the Court when he found 
 what had happened. It appeared that some near relatives of 
 Mr. Norris — two, I think— had died abroad, insane. Mr. 
 Norris was aware of this, and had been fond of talking of it to 
 Mr. Jevons : the latter thought he had feared the malady for 
 himself. He had used to say that he should never marry ; and 
 that resolution Mr. Jevons emphatically endorsed. However, 
 he did marry, and, of course, Mr. Jevons had no power to 
 prevent it. These particulars I learned of Mr. Jevons as I 
 was driving him to the Court. Mrs. Norris begged to be made 
 acquainted with all details ; and after her husband's death 
 Mr. Jevons disclosed them to her, suppressing nothing. What 
 a changed woman she was from that time ! and I believe would 
 then have been thankful had her baby died. ' It must be my 
 care to prevent its marrying, should it live to grow up,' she
 
 4-6 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 said to Mr. Jevons in my presence ; and ten times over during 
 that one interview she begged him to tell her whether he 
 thought the child would inherit the fatal disease." 
 
 "But the child did marry," interrupted the dean. "Married 
 Mr. Carleton St. John." 
 
 " Yes. I believe Mrs. Darling did try to prevent it, but it 
 was of no use. Whilst she concealed the reason, arguments 
 could not fail to prove powerless. It might have been better — 
 I don't know — had she allowed her daughter to become ac- 
 quainted with the truth. My opinion is, that Charlotte has 
 more than once, even before her marriage, been on the verge 
 of insanity. In her attacks of temper the violence displayed 
 was very great for a person perfectly sane." 
 
 " Did Mrs. Darling ever attempt to excuse this violence 
 to you ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Darling has never spoken to me on the subject at all 
 since her first husband's death," replied Mr. Pym. " She has 
 ignored it. But for an expression at times in her face, I might 
 suppose she fancied that all recollection of the tragedy had 
 faded from my mind. When I heard that George St. John was 
 about to marry Miss Norris, I called on Mrs. Darling, and in 
 the course of conversation I said, incidentally, as it were, ' Will 
 this marriage be for your daughter's benefit, think you ? ' and 
 she seemed offended, and said, Of course it would — what did 
 I mean ? " 
 
 "Could you not" — Frederick St. John hesitated as he spoke 
 — " have whispered a word of warning to Mr, George St. 
 John ? " 
 
 " I suppose not. The thought crossed me, but I could not 
 see that I was justified in carrying it out. Had Mrs. Darling 
 met me in a different manner, I might have ventured. I don't 
 think it would have done any good, though. George St. John 
 was in love with Miss Norris, or fancied himself so ; and would 
 most likely have married her in spite of caution." 
 
 " In her life, subsequently to her marriage, were there at any 
 time indications of insanity ? " 
 
 " I feel tempted to say there were, though I could not bear 
 witness to it in a court of law," was the reply of Mr. Pym. 
 " One thing is indisputable — that she inherited her father's 
 jealousy of disposition. I don't know what it might have been 
 in him ; but in her it was in excess so great as to be in itself a 
 species of madness. She was not, that I ever heard, jealous of
 
 WALKING OUT TO DINNER. 427 
 
 her husband ; it displayed itself in her jealous love for her 
 child. Until he was born, I don't think she had one of those 
 paroxysms of violence that those about her called ' temper.' 
 George St. John could not understand them. These fits of 
 passion, coupled with the fierce jealousy that was beyond all 
 reason, all parallel in my experience, were very like madness." 
 
 There was a pause. Frederick St. John broke it with a 
 question. 
 
 " Did you suspect — I mean, was there any cause to suspect 
 — that she had a hand in the little boy's death — Benja's?" 
 
 ** 1 did suspect it. That is, I doubted whether it might not 
 be so," said Mr. Pym, in low tones. " There was an ugly point 
 in the matter that I have never liked — that of the doors being 
 fastened. But I am bound to say there was no proof against 
 her. Still I could not get rid of my doubts, and I think her 
 mother entertained them also." 
 
 " Mrs. Darling ! " 
 
 " I think so. We both caught each otlier in the act of trying 
 whether the bolt would slip when the door closed, in the manner 
 asserted. You see, when a suspicion of insanity attaches to a 
 man or woman. Me are prone to imagine things that we should 
 never think of doing under ordinary circumstances." 
 
 " Very true," emphatically assented the dean. 
 
 " The most bitter person upon the tragedy was Honour ; it 
 was only natural she should be so ; but even she did not suspect 
 Mrs. Carleton. She spoke against her in her ravings, but 
 ravings go for nothing. If Honour suspected any one, it was 
 Prance rather than Mrs. Carleton." 
 
 "Prance I" echoed Mr. St. John. 
 
 " She told some tale, at the time, of having seen Prance hiding 
 in a niche of the corridor, opposite the nursery door. I did not 
 think much of it, from the state of confusion in which Honour 
 must then have been; and Prance denied it in toto : said she 
 had never been there." 
 
 "Then you cannot give me any help?" said Frederick St. 
 John, in tones of disappointment. " You are unable to bear out 
 my suspicions of her present madness?" 
 
 " How can I bear them out ? " asked Mr. Pym. " I have not 
 seen her." 
 
 Frederick drummed for a minute on the table. " Don't you 
 think it strange that Prance should telegraph for Mrs. Darling 
 in the manner she did, and that Mrs. Darling should hasten to
 
 428 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 respond to it — on the wings of the wind, as one may say— and 
 stay on at Castle Wafer ? " 
 
 " I do," was the surgeon's reply : " assuming that the message 
 related to Mrs. Carleton, of which I suppose there can be no 
 doubt. Mrs. Carleton is not ill in body ; therefore it must have 
 had reference to her mind." 
 
 " I wish you could see her ! " impulsively spoke Frederick, 
 "and watch her as I have done." 
 
 " I intend to see her," said Mr. Pym. " I thought of calling 
 at once on Mrs. Darling; now, as I leave you." 
 
 " Do so," cried Frederick, " Contrive to remain a few days 
 at Castle Wafer, You can say that you are my guest. Stay ; 
 I'll give you the invitation in a careless sort of way before them 
 all to-night, and you can accept it." 
 
 " We will see about that," said the surgeon, rising. " I had 
 better be going, if Dr. Beauclerc will excuse me, or it may look 
 late to call. Perhaps you will direct me the nearest way to 
 Castle Wafer." 
 
 " I will go with you," said Mr. St. John. " The nearest 
 way is through the shrubberies. We shall be there in five 
 minutes." 
 
 They went out together, the dean saying he would follow 
 with the ladies, as they were all to spend the evening at Castle 
 Wafer. But when the dean reached the drawing-room he 
 found they had already gone, and he did not hurry himself. 
 
 It was a lovely moonlight night, clear and bright, and Mr. 
 St. John and the surgeon commenced their walk, talking eagerly. 
 Mr. St. John told him, what he had not liked to mention before 
 the dean — Mrs. Carleton's jealousy of Miss Beauclerc ; the 
 occasional wildness of her eyes when she looked at her, and 
 the little adventure in Georgina's chamber at midnight. " It 
 is an awful responsibility that rests upon us," he remarked. 
 " I feel it so, Mr. Pym, now that I have heard your story to- 
 night. If her father went mad from jealousy, and attempted the 
 life of his wife, Mrs. Carleton may be attempting some violence 
 to Miss Beauclerc." 
 
 " Miss Beauclerc is young and good-looking, I suppose." 
 
 " Both ; and her manners are perfectly charming. She is 
 just the girl that would be obnoxious to a rival." 
 
 " It is all fancy, I presume, on Mrs. Carleton's part. There 
 is nothing between Miss Beauclerc and Sir Isaac ? " 
 
 Frederick St. John broke into a laugh. " Sir Isaac loves
 
 WALKING OUT TO DINNER. 429 
 
 her as he would a child of his own ; and she venerates him as 
 a father. There is no other sort of love between them, Mr. 
 Pym." 
 
 Mr. Pym took a side glance at the speaker. Something in 
 the tone had struck him that some one else might be a lover of 
 Miss Beauclerc's, if Sir Isaac was not. 
 
 " Even allowing that Mrs. Carleton has been sane hitherto, 
 and my suspicion a myth, it would never do for her to marry 
 Sir Isaac," resumed Frederick. " You would say so if you knew 
 my brother and his extreme sensitiveness. The very thouglit 
 of his wife being liable to insanity would be to him perfectly 
 horrible." 
 
 " It would be to most people," said the doctor. 
 
 " I think he must be told now. I have abstained from 
 speaking out hitherto, from a fear that my motives might be 
 misconstrued. My brother, a confirmed old bachelor, has 
 brought me up to consider myself his heir ; and it would look 
 as though I were swayed by self-interest." 
 
 "I understand," said the surgeon. "But he must be saved 
 from Mrs. Carleton." 
 
 " I cannot bring myself to think that he is in real danger ; I 
 believe still that he has no thought of marrying, and never will 
 have. But Mrs. Carleton is undeniably attractive, and stranger 
 things have been known." 
 
 "The better plan would be to lay the whole case before Sir 
 Isaac. It need not be yourself. I should suggest Dr. Beau- 
 clerc. And then " 
 
 The surgeon ceased, arrested by the warning hand of Frede- 
 rick. They had turned into the dark labyrinth of a place 
 where the artificial rocks rose on the confines of the Rectory 
 grounds. Georgina Beauclerc was walking very deliberately 
 towards them. Not at her did Frederick lift his hand; but 
 at a swift, dark figure, who was following her silently as a 
 shadow, stealthily as an omen of evil. Frederick St. John 
 sprang forward and clasped Georgina in his arms. 
 
 The dark figure turned suddenly and vanished ; but not 
 before its glaring eyes and its white teeth had been seen by 
 the unwelcome intruder. He recognized Mrs. Carleton, her 
 black lace shawl thrown over her head. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure ! " exclaimed Georgina. 
 
 It all passed in an instant. Georgina had heard nothing, seen 
 nothing ; and she felt inclined to resent Mr. St. John's extra-
 
 430 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 ordinary movement, when the first surprise was over. He held 
 her for a moment against his beating heart ; beating more per- 
 ceptibly than usual just then. 
 
 " What did you do that for ? Were you going to smother 
 me ? " 
 
 " I did it to shield you from harm, my darling," he whispered, 
 unconscious, perhaps, that he used the endearing term. 
 Rarely had Frederick St. John been less himself than he was 
 at that moment. Miss Beauclerc looked at him in surprise ; 
 in the midst of her bounding pulses, her glowing blushes, she 
 saw that something had disturbed his equanimity. 
 
 " What are you doing out here alone ? " 
 
 " You need not be cross " — and indeed his sharp quick 
 question had sounded so. " As if I could not take a stroll by 
 moonlight if I like ! Perhaps you are afraid of the moon, as 
 mamma is." 
 
 " But what were you doing ? Had you come from Castle 
 Wafer? You must not go out at night alone, Georgina." 
 
 "Oh indeed; who says so?" she returned, with wilful im- 
 pertinence ; but it was all put on to hide the ecstatic rapture 
 his one word had brought to her. " If you must know, mamma 
 and Miss Denison kept up such a chorus of abuse of me as we 
 went to Castle Wafer, that I would not go on with them. I 
 came slowly back to meet you and papa." 
 
 He had drawn her arm within his own, and was leading her 
 back to the Rectory. She could hardly keep up with him. 
 
 " Where are you hurrying me to ? " 
 
 " To the dean. He will take care of you to Castle Wafer." 
 
 It may be that she thought some one else might have taken 
 carq^ of her. But she said nothing. Just before they reached 
 the 'Rectory door, Mr. St. John stopped under the shade of the 
 laurels. 
 
 " Georgina, I must say a serious word to you. Put away 
 nonsense for a minute, and hear me. I think I have saved 
 you from a great danger ; will you make me a promise in 
 return ? " 
 
 "From a great danger !" she repeated, the words rendering 
 her as serious as he was. " What danger ? What can you 
 mean ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell precisely what danger, neither can I say more 
 particularly what I mean. Nevertheless I think I am right. 
 It is not good for you to be about alone just nov/, whether
 
 WALKING OUT TO DINNER. 431 
 
 before nightfall or after it. You must give me your promise 
 not to be so." 
 
 " What is there to harm me ? " she \Yhispered, involuntarily 
 clinging more closely to his arm. 
 
 " Leave that with me for the present. Only trust me, and 
 do as I say. A\'ill you promise ? " 
 
 " Yes, if there is a necessity for it. I promise you." 
 
 Her earnest face was raised in the moonlight. She had 
 never seen him so solemn as now. He bent his head. 
 
 " Will you seal the compact, Georgina ? " 
 
 Instinct, and the grave tender tone, told her what he meant. 
 Her eyes filled with tears ; but she did not draw her face away, 
 and he left a kiss upon her lips. 
 
 " Mind, Georgina, that's as binding as an oath," he said, as 
 he walked on. " Take care that you strictly keep your promise. 
 There is urgent necessity why you should do so. Sometime I 
 may tell you why, if you are good. I may be telling you all 
 sorts of things besides." 
 
 Her face was bent to conceal its hot blushes. Heaven 
 seemed suddenly to have opened for Georgina Beauclerc. 
 
 " Halloa ! " cried the dean, as he met them in the hall. " I 
 thought you had gone on with your mamma, Georgina." 
 
 " She came back to walk with you, sir," said Mr. St. John, 
 only waiting to speak the words and then hastening away again. 
 
 Mr. Pym was standing near the rocks as he got up to him. 
 "Where did you hide yourself?" cried Frederick. "You 
 seemed to vanish into air. I could see you nowhere." 
 
 "I slipped behind here," answered the surgeon, indicating 
 the rocks. "Was not one of those ladies Mrs. Carleton?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Well, I thought it might be as well for her not to see me 
 here. I wish to call at Gastle Wafer by accident, you under- 
 stand." 
 
 Frederick St. John nodded. " Could you see her teeth and 
 her glistening eyes ? She was stealthily following Miss Beau- 
 clerc. For what purpose ? I am thankful we were here." 
 
 " Where is Miss Beauclerc now ? " 
 
 " She is coming on with the dean. I have cautioned her 
 not to go out alone. Mr. Pym, what is to be done ? This 
 state of things cannot be allowed to go on. I call upon you, 
 as a good and true man, to aid us, if it be in your power." 
 
 Mr. Pym made po reply. He walked on in his favourite
 
 433 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 attitude, his hands clasped behind his back, just as he was 
 walking in that sorrowful chamber, the evening you first beheld 
 him ; and his face wore, to Mr. St. John's thinking, a strangely 
 troubled look in the moonlight. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 ON THE TERRACE. 
 
 Mr. Pym went to the house alone. Frederick St. John met 
 him in the hall as if by accident, and took him at once into the 
 dining-room. Any suspicion that they had met before at the 
 Rectory and come away from it together, was as far from the 
 minds of the assembled company, as that they had both 
 dropped from the clouds. 
 
 Mrs. St. John, who was better and had come down since 
 dinner, Mrs. Beauclerc, Mrs. Carleton, and Sir Isaac, had sat 
 down to whist. Mrs. Darling and Miss Denison were talking 
 to each other at the centre table; Miss Denison abusing 
 Georgina as the wildest girl in Christendom, Mrs. Darling pro- 
 , testing that she could not be half so wild as her own daughter 
 .Rose. Mrs. Darling was all wonder and astonishment when 
 Mr. Pym came in. What could have brought him to Lexing- 
 tQi-j ? — how very kind of him to call and see her. And it was 
 she who took him up to introduce him to Sir Isaac. 
 
 One moment's recoil, one startled look at the face, and Mrs. 
 Carleton held out her hand to the little surgeon, and was her 
 own calm and gracious self. Seated at whist there, opposite to 
 Sir Isaac, her voice lo\y and sweet, her manner so gentle and 
 collected, it would never have entered into any one's mind to 
 imagine that she had been gliding about stealthily in the moon- 
 light like a ghost, or a female poacher on forbidden ground : 
 and perhaps the surgeon might have been excused his momen- 
 tary doubt whether it was really Mrs. Carleton that they had 
 seen. 
 
 " How well you are looking ! " he exclaimed, as he shook 
 hands with her. 
 
 And it was no hollow compliment. The woman he saw 
 before him now, radiant in beauty, was no more like the dis- 
 tressing shadow he had visited at Ypres, than he himself was
 
 ON THE TERRACE. 433 
 
 like a lamp-post. Mrs. Carleton laughed. Yes, she said, she 
 was quite well now. 
 
 Mr. Pym begged he might not interrupt the game, and drew 
 away. Close upon that, the dean and his daughter came in, 
 and then came tea. Ere the surgeon had well swallowed his, 
 he was pacing the terrace outside with Mrs. Darling, no one 
 paying attention to them. 
 
 "You see I have obeyed your summons, Mrs. Darling," he 
 began ; " have called at Castle Wafer by accident, as you 
 desired. What is the business that you wish to consult me 
 upon ? " 
 
 Mrs. Darling had caught up her daughter's black lace shawl 
 as she left the room, and put it over her head ; just as Charlotte 
 had so recently worn it upon hers. She pulled it tightly round 
 her silk gown as she answered — 
 
 " I wish to speak to you about my daughter: I fear she is 
 ill." 
 
 " In body, or in mind? " 
 
 A moment's struggle with herself ere she should answer. 
 But no ; even now, although she had summoned the surgeon, 
 at a great cost and trouble, to her aid, she could not bring her 
 lips to admit a hint of the fatal malady, 
 
 " In mind ! " she echoed, rather indignantly. " I don't 
 know what you mean, Mr. Pym. What should be wrong with 
 Mrs. Carleton's mind ? " 
 
 "As you please," he said, with indifference. "I can go 
 back to-night if I am not wanted." 
 
 They had come to the end of the gravel walk, and Mrs. 
 Darling stood still, apparently contemplating the lovely pro- 
 spect to be seen from Castle Wafer, How anxious looked her 
 face in the moonlight ; but for those betraying beams the sur- 
 geon might not have read the struggle that was going on within 
 her breast. 
 
 " Why should you think anything was wrong with her mind?" 
 she again asked, but this time the tones were of pain, not of 
 resentment. 
 
 " Mrs. Darling, it may be as well that we should understand 
 each other," said he. " I did not come here to be trifled with. 
 Either let there be confidence between us, or let me go back 
 whence I came. It may facilitate matters if I tell you / have 
 cause to suspect your daughter's mind to be at present not 
 altogether in a healthy state. If I do go back, I fear it will 
 
 St. Martin's Eve. 28
 
 434 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 be my duty to intimate as much beforehand to Sir Isaac St. 
 John." 
 
 She looked perfectly aghast, " What do you mean, Mr. 
 Pym ? " 
 
 " I mean just what I say, and no more. Oh, Mrs. Darling, 
 what nonsense this is — you and I to play at bo-peep with each 
 other 1 We have been doing it all the years of your daughter's 
 life. You cannot forget how much I know of the past : do 
 you think I have drowned my memory in a draught of Lethe's 
 waters ? Surely if there is one man on earth whom you might 
 consult confidentially, it is myself. I know as much as you 
 know." 
 
 Mrs. Darling burst into tears, and sobbed for some minutes. 
 " I shall be better now," she said ; " it will do me good. 
 Heaven alone knows what the tension has been." 
 
 "And now just tell me the whole, from beginning to end," 
 said Mr, Pym, in a more kindly tone , " you ought to have 
 done it years ago. You may be sure I will do what I can for 
 the best : and there may be safety in counsel." 
 
 Now that the ice was broken, she entered pretty freely into 
 details, and soon experienced that relief, and it may also be 
 said that satisfaction in talking, which this confidential disclo- 
 sure of some long-secret trouble is sure to bring. She told Mr. 
 Pym how, ever since Benja's death, she had had her doubts of 
 Charlotte's perfect sanity : and she freely confessed that her 
 hasty return to Castle '\^'afer was caused by a telegraphic mes- 
 sage from Prance, who was growing alarmed at her mistress's 
 symptoms. 
 
 " What symptoms were they ? " inquired the doctor. 
 
 " I don't know that I can enumerate them to you ; they were 
 little odds and ends of things that Prance has noticed. Not 
 much, taken separately, but curious in the aggregate. Of 
 course the message did not contain them : I have learnt them 
 since I arrived. One thing I disliked more than all the rest — 
 Prance awoke one night and found her mistress was out of the 
 room. She was hastening away in search of her, and saw her 
 coming out of Miss Beauclerc's chamber. Now, for some 
 reason or other, Charlotte has taken a prejudice against Miss 
 Beauclerc " 
 
 " A moment, Mrs. Darling. If I am to help you with advice, 
 you must speak without disguise. Do not say ' for some reason 
 or other;' tell the reason, if you know it."
 
 ON THE TERRACE. 435 
 
 Another struggle with herself : imist she confess ? Mrs. 
 Darling clasped her hands in jjain. 
 
 " Oh, how cruel it is to have to say these things ! And of 
 Charlotte, who has always been so reticent, so honourable, 
 whatever her other failings. There ! let me speak out and 
 have done with it. I believe she is jealous of Miss Beauclcrc : 
 of Miss Beauclerc and of Sir Isaac St. John." 
 
 " Your daughter would like to remain here for ever — mistress 
 of Castle Wafer, and Sir Isaac's wife?" 
 
 " Yes, I do believe it is so. And I could have believed 
 such planning of any one in the world rather than of Charlotte. 
 I have striven to persuade her to leave with me, and it is of no 
 use. I would not for the world that she should marry again." 
 
 "She ought not to have married at all," remarked the 
 surgeon. 
 
 " I could not help it. I did my best. You don't know 
 what a care Charlotte has always been to me ! " 
 
 " To return to Miss Beauclerc. Do you fear Mrs. Carleton 
 might injure her?" 
 
 " Not if she retains her reason. But — should that leave her, 
 even momentarily, — Mr. Pym," she broke off, " it was because 
 I found myself incompetent to deal with these troubles that I 
 wrote for you." 
 
 " You must take her away from Castle Wafer without delay." 
 
 "But she will not be taken away. In all ordinary matters she 
 is as sane as I am ; as capable of judging, of arguing, and of 
 sensibly acting. It is only now and then that a sort of 
 paroxysm comes over her. It may be only violent passion, to 
 which you know she has ever been subject; but, it may be 
 something Avorse. She is then, as I believe, incapable of con- 
 trolling her actions \ and should she find an opportunity of 
 doing an injury at these times she might do it. There are two 
 people in this house against whom I can see she is desperately 
 incensed : Miss Beauclerc and Honour Tritton. Should 
 she find herself alone with either of them in one of these 
 paroxysms- 
 
 Mrs. Darling stopped. The subject was too painful to 
 continue. But the surgeon took up the thread in a quiet tone. 
 " We might have a second edition of the Alnwick tragedy." 
 Mrs. Darling — he could see it in the bright night— seemed 
 to recoil a step. But she strove to answer with more than cus- 
 tomary calmness.
 
 436 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 "The Alnwick tragedy ! I do not understand." 
 
 " When Alnwick's heir was — killed." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Pym, Mr, Pym ! you cannot think that was any- 
 thing but a miserable accident ? " cried the unfortunate mother. 
 " It was nothing else. Honour alone was in fault." 
 
 '^ It may be that we shall never know," he answered. " My 
 impression — nay, my belief — you and I had better be out- 
 spoken now, Mrs. Darling — always was, that Mrs. Carleton had 
 something to do with that. I think at the time you entertained 
 the same opinion." 
 
 Mrs. Darling made no answer. She walked on, her scared 
 face raised in that tell-tale moonlight j her very lips white. 
 
 " I thought the probabilities, knowing what you and I know, 
 were greatly against her at the time," repeated the surgeon ; 
 " I think them greater now. You are aware, I presume, that 
 the imaginary image of Benja and the lighted church haunted 
 her for months ? And in that show of lanterns in France, on 
 St. Martin's Eve " 
 
 " How did you hear of that ? " interrupted Mrs. Darling. 
 
 "Oh, I get to hear of many things," was the reply. "^It 
 does not matter how. I fear this terror, in one so cold and 
 impassive as your daughter has always been, is rather suggestive 
 of a guilty conscience." 
 
 " Why recall this ? " asked Mrs. Darling, with a sob. " I 
 think you are wrong in your suspicions." , 
 
 " I do not recall it to give you pain. Only to impress upon 
 you how essential it is, with these doubts upon our minds, that 
 Mrs. Carleton should be removed from Castle Wafer." 
 
 " Indeed, I see it as strongly as you do. But you know 
 what her will has always been. And if our suspicion of her 
 state of mind is wrong, and she is really sane, we are not justi- 
 fied in forcing her actions. Can you remain a few days and 
 watch her, so as to form an opinion of her state ? There's a 
 plaiu, comfortable inn at hand, the Barley ]\Iow, and you could 
 be here very much in the daytime." 
 
 " For the matter of that, I could contrive to get invited to 
 stay here," observed the surgeon, with a cough. " That good- 
 natured brother of Sir Isaac's is sure to ask me. And, to tell 
 you the truth, Mrs. Darling, if I undertake to watch her at all, 
 it must be a close and uninterrupted watch." 
 
 " Close and uninterrupted ! " repeated Mrs. Darling, whom 
 the words did not altogether please. " I am so very fearful
 
 ON THE TERRACE. 437 
 
 of any suspicion being excited abroad as to Charlotte's 
 state." 
 
 " That suspicion already exists," remarked the doctor. " Your 
 daughter's manners — these paroxysms that you speak of— have 
 been observed and commented on. It was only a post or two 
 before I got your summons, that I received a letter from this 
 neighbourhood, implying doubts of Mrs. Carleton's state of 
 mind, and inquiring if I could inform the writer whether in- 
 sanity had been in her family." 
 
 Mrs. Darling's breath was nearly taken away with astonish- 
 ment. "Who could have sent the letter? Surely, not Sir 
 Isaac ! " 
 
 " The letter was a confidential letter, and I cannot name the 
 writer." 
 
 " If it was not Sir Isaac, it must have been Frederick St. 
 John. Why need he meddle ? " 
 
 " It was neither Frederick St. John nor Sir Isaac : I may tell 
 you that much. I only mention this to prove to you that even 
 were we willing to allow matters to go on as they have been 
 going, it is now impossible. A weighty responsibility lies upon 
 me, Mrs, Darling : and something must be done in one shape 
 or another. Had I received no summons from you, I think I 
 should still have come to Lexington." 
 
 Mrs. Darling walked to the end of the terrace before replying. 
 Matters seemed to be growing complicated. Was the time of 
 exposure really come ? It had always lain upon her with an 
 awful dread. 
 
 " But what can you do ? " she asked. " Suppose, after watch- 
 ing Charlotte, you come to the conclusion that there's nothing 
 really the matter with her " 
 
 "But I should not come to that conclusion," he interrupted. 
 "Were I to remain in the house a month, and see no proof 
 whatever of insanity, I could not be sure that it did not exist. 
 ^V'e know how cunning these people are, and " 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Pym, how cruelly you speak ! " 
 
 " I am sorry to do so. What I was about to say, in answer 
 to your question, is this. Allowing that I perceive no present 
 grounds for alarm, I must still assume that such grounds do 
 exist ; in short, both you and I know they do : and there will 
 be one of two courses to pursue. Either you must remove your 
 daughter from Castle Wafer before I quit it : or I must get rid of 
 my responsibility by disclosing my fears to Sir Isaac St. John."
 
 438 ST. MARTINIS EVE. 
 
 " No, no ; not to him — not to any one if it can be pre- 
 vented," implored Mrs. Darling. " I will get Charlotte away. 
 Anything rather than make the dread public. Think how long 
 I have succeeded in concealing it." 
 
 " To speak to Sir Isaac would not be to make it public. 
 And 1 have already told you, INIrs. Darling, it is not so entirely 
 a secret as you have supposed. However, if you remove Char- 
 lotte, undertaking that she does not return, there will be no 
 cause for my speaking to any one." 
 
 " I'll do it all ; I'll try and do it," said Mrs. Darling. " And 
 now about your own stay at Castle Wafer. How shall you 
 manage it ? " 
 
 " Leave it to me," replied Mr. Pym. " We medical men 
 often possess a pass-key in an emergency. I think Mrs. Carle- 
 ton will not like my staying. She did not seem pleased to see 
 me." 
 "No?" 
 
 " It struck me that she did not. I observed a strange sort 
 of shiver, a look of terror, pass over her face when she saw me." 
 " How observant you are ! " was Mrs. Darling's comment, 
 "/saw nothing of it." 
 
 " It is our business to be observant." 
 
 " Of course. And very useful I dare say you find the habit." 
 "You spoke of Honour Tritton," resumed the surgeon, pass- 
 ing by the other remark. " Why do you suppose " 
 
 " Hush !" breathed Mrs. Darling in a warning voice, and she 
 laid her hand upon his arm to enforce the caution more em- 
 phatically. " Is that Charlotte ? " 
 
 Some one had cautiously raised the window of an upper 
 room, and was peeping out. Mr. Pym's quick eyes saw at 
 once that it was not Charlotte, but Prance. Mrs. Prance had 
 her share of curiosity as well as more demonstrative people. 
 
 " We had better go in, Mrs. Darling," remarked the surgeon. 
 " Should Mrs. Carleton come out and see us talking together, 
 she might fancy my visit here had reference to her, and be 
 forthwith on her guard accordingly. As she was — I know she 
 was — on her guard when I went to Ypres." 
 
 The evening was not quite over, when the anxious pacers on 
 the terrace re-entered tlie drawing-room ; the whist players were 
 just rising. Mrs. Carleton came over at once to Mr. Pym. 
 Handsome and stately did she look, her rich dress sweeping 
 the ground ; her face calni; her manner gracious, she seemed
 
 ON THE TERRACE. 439 
 
 just as sane as Mr. Pym himself. He happened to be looking 
 with some interest at Miss Beauclerc ; a fair, lovely, attractive 
 girl, in her pretty white dress, and with her grey-blue honest 
 eyes. 
 
 " When did you come to Lexington, ISIr. Pym ? " 
 
 The question proceeded from Mrs. Carleton, who had slipped 
 into a seat beside him. He answered that he had arrived only 
 that evening ; had been sent for to see a patient. 
 
 "Who is it?" she asked. 
 
 " A young man suffering from heart disease," promptly re- 
 sponded Mr. Pym, deeming this positive evasion justifiable 
 under the circumstances. 
 
 " And so you took the opportunity to call at Castle Wafer ! " 
 she said. And there might have been the slightest possible 
 resentment perceptible in the tone, though not to an ear less 
 quick than the surgeon's. 
 
 " Just so," he answered. " When we have nothing particular 
 to do with ourselves, we are apt to make use of any past civili- 
 ties that may be available. I remembered tliat Mr. Frederick 
 St. John, when I met him at Alnwick, proffered me an invita- 
 tion to call at Castle Wafer, should I ever travel to its vicinity." 
 
 "Oh!" she said. "Fred St. John's rather fond of those 
 impromptu invitations. Do you go back to-morrow?" 
 
 " Not unless my patient shall have done with me." 
 
 Mr. Pym remained at Castle Wafer, a temporary guest. In 
 the most natural manner conceivable, Frederick St. John, with- 
 out being suspected of any ulterior motive, pressed the invitation 
 on the little surgeon. Castle Wafer would be a more comfort- 
 able roof for him than the Barley Mow, and his sojourn there 
 would afford him, Frederick, an opportunity of improving the 
 acquaintance begun at Alnwick, he graciously observed, when 
 they had met at the funeral of Mn Carleton St. John. Mr. 
 Pym suffered himself to be persuaded. And thus the surgeon 
 took up his task of watching Mrs. Carleton, a very private- 
 detective ; installed thereunto by two anxious parties, neither 
 of whom suspected the connivance of the other. What wheels 
 within wheels there are in this world ! 
 
 In one sense of the word, the step might have been dispensed 
 with, for it did not serve to prevent the disclosure to Sir Isaac 
 St. John. Mrs. Darling's great hope from the respite of the 
 two or three days' watching, was, that she should in the mean- 
 while succeed in inducing Charlotte to bid adieu to Castle
 
 440 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Wafer, and thus obviate the necessity for any appeal to Sir 
 Isaac. It might have proved so, so far as Mr. Pym was con- 
 cerned ; but the initiative was taken by the dean. 
 
 Very disagreeably impressed by the fresh doubts of Mrs. 
 Carleton's sanity, acquired during the evening visit of Mr. Pym 
 to the Rectory, the dean considered that there was now sufficient 
 matter to justify a communication to Sir Isaac. He resolved to 
 make it himself; and on the following morning, the one suc- 
 ceeding Mr, Pym's arrival, he went up for that purpose to 
 Castle Wafer, and procured a private interview with Sir Isaac 
 in his sitting-room. 
 
 A very different story, this, from the one sought to be told 
 the other evening by Frederick. As the dean, calm, sensible, 
 reliable, went through the whole, point by point, concluding 
 with the fact that Mr. Pym was at Castle Wafer for no other 
 purpose than to watch Charlotte Carleton, Sir Isaac listened 
 with increasing wonder. 
 
 " And you say Frederick knew of this !" he exclaimed. " Why 
 did he not tell me?" 
 
 "He did attempt to tell you; but failed. I suppose liis 
 ultra self-consciousness and the fear that even you might mis- 
 construe his motives, withheld him from saying more." 
 
 " How could I be likely to misconstrue them ? " 
 •The dean said how. Which certainly did not tend to 
 decrease the wonder of Sir Isaac. 
 
 " He has been assuming that Mrs. Carleton was looking 
 after me ! That she had designs upon me ! Me ! You must 
 be mistaking me for Frederick." 
 
 " Certainly not for Frederick. Frederick's private opinion 
 is, that the young woman hates him. I fancy there's not much 
 doubt that she would have no objection to your making her 
 Lady St. John." 
 
 When Sir Isaac fully comprehended this hypothesis as to 
 liimself, which he had little difficulty in doing, he burst into an 
 uncontrollable fit of laughter. The dean saw how it was : 
 Isaac St. John had been so firmly fixed in his resolution never 
 to marry, had lived so in it, that the very notion of his 
 breaking it, or of any woman's thinking she could induce 
 him to break it, seemed to him nothing less than an im- 
 possibiUty. 
 
 " Then you never had an idea of Mrs. Carleton ? " observed 
 the dean.
 
 LOCKED IN. 441 
 
 " I never had an idea of Mrs. Carleton in that sense of the 
 word, or of any one else," answered Sir Isaac. "I should as 
 soon think of getting hanged as of getting married. And I 
 do believe you must be wrong in supposing she has entertained 
 such a notion. A young and pretty woman want to tie herself 
 to me ! Why, look at me ; at what I am. No, no : it is not 
 likely. And it was only the other day she lost her husband and 
 her child ; her heart must be buried with them for some time 
 yet to come." 
 
 " Well, there lay the cause of Frederick's hesitation," said 
 the dean. " With this idea upon him, no wonder he was 
 tenacious of speaking. I confess I did not agree with him. I 
 thought you were no more likely to take a wife than I am — who 
 possess one already. 
 
 " It will be a joke against Frederick for the rest of my days," 
 said Sir Isaac. " / marry ? I wish, by the way, he would 
 marry ! But about poor Mrs. Carleton ? I should like to see 
 Mr. Pym." 
 
 The surgeon was summoned to the conference. And after 
 the dean's departure, he disclosed to Sir Isaac the fear of her 
 attempting some injury to Miss Beauclerc or to Honour : of 
 which the dean remained in ignorance. 
 
 " There is only one thing to do," was the conclusion come 
 to by Sir Isaac. " Inhospitable though any such measure may 
 seem, Mrs. Carleton must this day quit Castle Wafer." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 LOCKED IN. 
 
 Mr. Pym appeared to make himself at home at Castle Wafer. 
 One of the best chambers had been assigned him, its door 
 opening exactly opposite to the room occupied by Mrs. 
 Cadeton and by Prance. And that gentleman retired to rest 
 with his door propped back, and his gaze on the corridor. 
 Perhaps he slept with his eyes open. 
 
 In the morning he was up betimes. Going downstairs, he 
 sought Honour, and sat in the housekeeper's room while he 
 talked to her. He had really no ulterior motive in this ; but
 
 442 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 he vras a sociable man, and he merely wished to be civil to 
 the girl, whom he had once seen so much of as Benja's nurse. 
 
 Honour was excessively gratified. In the first place at 
 seeing the surgeon again ; in the next at indulging her gossip- 
 ing propensities. She had heard litde or nothing of Alnwick 
 since she quitted it : Mrs. Tritton having left the Hall and the 
 neighbourhood soon after herself. Question after question 
 did she ask Mr. Pym of the changes, and would probably have 
 gone on for an hour of her own good will, but that Mr. Pym, 
 who was remarkably quick of sight and hearing, and why he 
 wore glasses no one ever could make out — detected some faint 
 sound or movement at the partially closed door, as if somebody 
 were listening at it. 
 
 " Is any one wanting to come in. Honour? " 
 
 Honour pulled the door open, and saw nothing. But a faint 
 rustling, as of some person turning from the door as soon as he 
 spoke, had caught Mr. Pym's ears. 
 
 " Look out," said he, sharply. 
 
 Honour looked out, and was just in time to see the petticoats 
 of a lady disappearing round the corner of the passage, and to 
 recognize them as Mrs. Carleton's. 
 
 " Mrs. Carleton, was it ? " observed the surgeon carelessly, as 
 she made the remark. " Does she often pay you a visit here, 
 Honour ? " 
 
 " I never saw her here before, sir. Perhaps she was corning 
 in search of you." 
 
 "Ah, perhaps so," replied Mr. Pym, carelessly. "What 
 were you saying, Honour? — that you heard 1 went over 
 to Germany to see the boy? Well, it's true. Whether it 
 was Germany or France, or any other habitable part of the 
 globe, though, I can't take upon myself to say. I could not 
 do him any good. He was at death's-door then. How did 
 you hear it ? " 
 
 " From Mrs. Darling, sir. She often said a word to me 
 when she was staying here the last time, and she mentioned 
 that you had been had over to Master George, but it was of 
 no use. What a sad thing it was that the child could not be 
 cured ! " 
 
 "Ay. There are many sad things in the world. Honour; 
 sadder even than that. Well, I must go, or I shall keep 
 breakfast waiting. You'll see me again before I leave." 
 
 He made his way to the breakfast-room, and sat down to
 
 LOCKED IN. 443 
 
 breakfast with the rest. Mrs. Carkton's face was impassive 
 as usual : but the surgeon saw that she watched him just as 
 keenly as he did her. After breakfast, as if to defeat the 
 purpose for which he was staying at Castle Wafer, she shut 
 herself up in Mrs. St. John's room, and no one could get near 
 her. It was during this time that the interview took place 
 between the dean and Sir Isaac. 
 
 " I entrust it all to you, Mr. Pym," Sir Isaac had said. 
 " Perhaps speaking to Mrs. Darling will be sufhcient : but — 
 you know the laws of hospitality — I would rather not appear at 
 all in this matter if I can help it. Let the departure be your 
 doing — you understand. Only in case of necessity bring in my 
 name." 
 
 Mr. Pym's first step was to seek Mrs. Darling. She was 
 shut up in her room too ; so, after waiting for some time, 
 he sent a message to her, and she came to him. The 
 observant surgeon saw that there was a blank, disappointed 
 look in her face. 
 
 "I can do nothing with Charlotte," she exclaimed. "She 
 refuses most positively to quit Castle Wafer : and when I 
 urged it, she put an end to the colloquy by leaving me. What 
 is to be done ? " 
 
 The surgeon could not say what was to be done. Only that 
 to get away Mrs. Carleton that day was indispensable. 
 
 Mrs. Darling, poor woman, began to temporize. Charlotte 
 was perfectly well now, she was sure, and a day or two's delay 
 could make no difference. To-morrow, perhaps, or the next 
 day, she might be induced to hear reason. At length Mr. 
 Pym — for Mrs. Darling seemed inclined to become obstinate 
 in her turn — was obliged to hint at the commands of Sir 
 Isaac. 
 
 Mrs. Darling was bitterly incensed, believing that Mr. Pym 
 had been the informant. " I did not think you would have 
 been so treacherous," she exclaimed. " You promised me not 
 to speak to Sir Isaac until all means had been tried to get 
 Charlotte away." 
 
 " I did not speak to him. He spoke to me." 
 
 " He spoke to you ! First ? " 
 
 " Yes. He sent for me into his room, and entered upon it." 
 
 " Who could have told him ? " cried Mrs. Darling, after a 
 mortified pause. And Mr. Pym remained silent : it was not 
 his business to speak of the dean.
 
 444 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 " The less we discuss this matter the better, Mrs. Darling. 
 It would bring no profit. All we have to do is to remove your 
 daughter. And if I were you I would let this hint about Sir 
 Isaac be as if it had not been spoken. It would be painful to 
 you to show consciousness of it ; doubly painful to him. He 
 is a true gendeman : but tales have been carried to him of 
 Mrs. Carleton's state of mind, and he deems it necessary that 
 she should not remain." 
 
 " I would give half I am worth to know who it is that has 
 been meddling ! " exclaimed Mrs. Darling. " What is to be 
 done ? Will you speak to Charlotte ? " 
 
 " Of course I will. If you cannot persuade her, I must try 
 my powers. It will be a very awkward thing if we have to get 
 her away by force or stratagem." 
 
 " By stratagem we shall never accomplish it," said Mrs. 
 Darling. " Charlotte is too keen to be imposed upon." 
 
 He waited until luncheon-time. He thought it better to 
 lead to an interview with Mrs. Carleton, than to send and 
 demand it. She came down with Mrs. St. John, and the 
 luncheon passed off as usual, every one being at table 
 except Sir Isaac. Mr. Brumm said his master was taking 
 luncheon in his room, but offered no other apology for his 
 absence, and Georgina went boldly in to him. 
 
 But Mr. Pym was destined to be defeated, at least in a 
 degree. He whispered to Mrs. Carleton to come and walk 
 with him on the terrace as they rose from table, and drew 
 her hand within his arm and went out with her. It was a 
 dull lowering day, threatening rain, and she looked up at the 
 skies with rather a vacant look. Mr. Pym told her as gently 
 as he could, that it was deemed necessary she should have 
 change of air ; that he and Mrs. Darling were both anxious on 
 the score of her health, and thought immediate change of scene 
 essential. She laughed in his face; she set him and her 
 mother at defiance ; she spoke of appealing to Sir Isaac : and 
 tlien Mr. Pym hinted— as he had done to her mother— that 
 Sir Isaac acquiesced in the measure. 
 
 No sooner had the words left his lips, than a change passed 
 over her face. Medical man though he was, Mr. Pym shrank 
 from it : never had its aspect been more livid, its expression 
 so wildly terrible. He caught her arm, put it within his, and 
 began to speak words of soothing kindness. But she broke 
 from him; muttered something incoherently about the plot
 
 LOCKED IN. 445 
 
 against her, which those in the house had been planning to 
 carry out, and escaped indoors. Mr. Pym had httle doubt 
 that by "those in the house," she meant Miss Beauclerc and 
 Honour. It is very hkely she included himself and Mrs. 
 Darling. 
 
 He followed her ; he called Mrs. Darling to his aid. That 
 she had secreted herself in her own room, they found at once, 
 since the door was fastened inside, and no reply was given to 
 their knocks. The surgeon grew alarmed. This state of 
 things was more than likely to end in a paroxysm of insanity. 
 By-and-by mutterings were heard inside ; violent pacings of 
 the room ; short derisive laughs ; and one shrill scream. Mrs. 
 Darling was nearly beside herself; and Prance — Prance the 
 impassive — for once betrayed terror. 
 
 " I shall break open the door," said Mr. Pym. 
 
 But he went first of all to apprise Sir Isaac of what he was 
 going to do. Sir Isaac gave him carte blanche to do what he 
 pleased ; but urged that poor Mrs. Carleton's comfort should 
 be studied as much as was practicable. And under the cir- 
 cumstances he did not press for her departure ; only stipulating 
 that Mr. Pym should undertake the charge of her until she did 
 leave. 
 
 When Mn Pym got back to the corridor, he found the dis- 
 mayed watchers and waiters outside it, Mrs. Darling and Prance, 
 had been joined by another — Honour Tritton. 
 
 It is not possible for a commotion such as this to occur in 
 a house without its sounds transpiring to the household. 
 Quietly as these knockings and callings had been carried on, 
 news of them penetrated to the servants below. " Mrs. Carleton 
 had bolted herself in her chamber, and could not be got at." 
 Honour, in her interest, it may be in her curiosity, went up- 
 stairs at once. Perhaps she deemed she had a sort of right 
 to do so, from her former relations with Mrs. Carleton. 
 
 Mr. Pym scarcely noticed her. The noise inside the room 
 had increased ; that is, the pacings to and fro were louder and 
 quicker. Mrs. Darling clasped her hands in helpless dismay : 
 she lifted her imploring face to the surgeon ; she put her lips 
 to the key-hole for the twentieth time. 
 
 " Charlotte ! my darling Charlotte ! I want to come in. I 
 must come in. I — I have left a key in your room. It will 
 soon be time to dress for dinner." 
 
 There was no response. But the pacings increased to a run.
 
 446 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 The dull day had become darker, and Honour turned into 
 Miss Beauclerc's room, and brought out a tall wax candle, 
 lighted, in a silver candlestick. 
 
 " Mrs. Carleton, I must beg of you to unlock the door," 
 cried out the surgeon. " If you do not, I shall be compelled 
 to break it open. Pray undo it." 
 
 It was of no avail. A mocking laugh vv'as again heard, but 
 there was no other response. 
 
 " Take care of yourselves," said Mr. Pym. 
 
 The door flew open with a burst. The first object they saw 
 was Mrs. Carleton, standing against the opposite wall and 
 glaring at them. Glaring ! the word has been used often in 
 regard to her eyes at times, but there is no other so applicable. 
 Mr. Pym \vent straight up to her. She eluded him with a 
 spring, pounced upon the unsuspecting and terrified Honour, 
 and in another moment was grappling with her, a fight for 
 dear life. 
 
 Poor lady ! What her thoughts had been during that self- 
 imprisonment she alone knew. That they had tended rapidly 
 to increase the mind's confusion, to speed her on to the great 
 gulf of insanity, already so near at hand, perhaps to have been 
 its very turning-point, there could be no doubt of. And it 
 may be that the sight of Honour amidst her enemies, of 
 Honour bearing a lighted candle, recalled her mind to that 
 dreadful night not yet two years gone by. 
 
 Whatever it may have been, whether any single cause, or 
 many causes combined : the mortification of being turned from 
 Castle Wafer, the visit of Mr. Pym, the seeing him that morn- 
 ing with Honour, or the opposition and confusion of this one 
 afternoon : certain it was, that the moment her mother and 
 Prance had been dreading in secret so long, had come. Mrs. 
 Carleton was insane. 
 
 It took all three, the surgeon, Mrs. Darling, and Prance, to 
 secure her in her violence : just as it had taken more than one 
 to secure her father in the years gone by. Honour was released, 
 terrified nearly to death, bruises on her arms, and a bite on 
 her cheek, of which she would never lose the mark. 
 
 When she was secured from doing harm to herself or others, 
 Mr. Pym touched Prance, and motioned her to a room apart. 
 Had Prance been capable of astonishment at anything, she 
 might have felt it then. He closed the door and pointed to a 
 chair.
 
 LOCKED IN. 4^7 
 
 " The time for evasion has gone by," he began. "To-morrow 
 will see your mistress in an asylum, Prance, from which she 
 can never more be released in safety. And — do you know for 
 what cause I have brought you here ? " 
 
 "No, sir," answered Prance; but in some hesitation, as if 
 she half-divined what the cause might be. 
 
 " I am about to speak of that past night at Alnwick ; the 
 burning of Benja. I feel as sure " — and he raised his finger to 
 her impressively — " that your mistress had something to do 
 with that, and that you knew it, as I am that you are before 
 me there. Few persons can deceive me ; and your manner 
 that night and subsequent to it, clever as you may have thought 
 yourself, convinced me there was a tale to tell. I did not 
 press for it then ; I had my reasons ; but I must hear it now." 
 
 " I had nothing to do with it, sir," replied Prance, not daring 
 to equivocate ; feeling perhaps, with him, that the time for 
 suppression had gone by. 
 
 "I don't suppose you had," returned Mr. Pym. "But you 
 were in that niche, where Honour saw you, for all that. Come ! 
 You must acquaint me with the particulars of that night : they 
 may be a guide to my treatment of your mistress. I must 
 know them, whether or not. Did she set the child on fire?" 
 
 " No, sir, I don't think she did. At least, not intentionally." 
 
 '•x\t any rate, she was in the room at the time? " 
 ■ "Yes, she was. But I think he caught fire accidentally. 
 There was some scuffle, and I fancy his white pinafore set 
 alight." 
 
 " But she bolted the door upon him? " 
 
 Prance actually for a moment looked distressed. " Pm afraid 
 she did, sir : the one door. The other, I have always believed, 
 and always shall believe, the child fastened himself" 
 
 " She bolted it on him when he was burning ? " 
 
 " Ah, I don't know that, sir ; I don't know it for certain." 
 
 " You have feared it." 
 
 "Yes; only that." 
 
 Mr. Pym sat down in a chair opposite Prance, the taoic 
 being between them. "Begin at the beginning. Prance," he 
 said. " This is a waste of time. How much of that night's 
 occurrences did you see and hear?" 
 
 " You — you are not asking for the purpose of proving the 
 crime against her, are you, sir?" demanded Prance. 
 
 "Of proving the crime against her, woman 1" echoed Mr.
 
 448 ST. MARTIN'S EVE, 
 
 Pym, wrathfully. "Your mistress is past having anything of 
 that sort proved against her : past its consequences, for that is, 
 I presume, what you mean. Had I wished to bring it home 
 to her, I should have stirred in it at the time. I have been as 
 quiet and careful as you. Now then, begin. Let us hear 
 what you had to do with it, and what brought you in the niche. 
 You have not forgotten, I suppose ? " 
 
 " No, indeed, sir ! I have thought of it all a great deal too 
 often to be pleasant," she said, leaning her head upon her hand. 
 " The account I gave before had very much of truth in it : 
 though not the whole of the truth," she added, after a pause. 
 
 " Then tell the whole now," said Mr. Pym, growing impatient 
 at the delay. 
 
 The substance of Prance's communication was as follows. 
 After she had been in the herb-room, she went upstairs to wash 
 her hands, which had become soiled from picking the herbs. 
 Whilst in her chamber, which was next to Mrs. Carleton's, she 
 heard her mistress come up from the dining-room and go into 
 her chamber, and she followed her in, to ask whether she' 
 wanted a light or anything, for it was getting quite dusk. Mrs. 
 Carleton was not in her room, but had gone through the 
 dressing-room, and was standing in the nursery, just inside the 
 door, apparently gazing at something, as one transfixed : a dull 
 sort of light came from the nursery, enabling Prance to see her 
 distinctly. Being rather curious, she peeped in, and saw Master 
 Benja slowly parading a lighted church about, which he carried 
 before him : it was on this her mistress's eyes were fixed. It 
 was really a pretty object. Prance said, lighted up in the dark 
 room. The child was speaking; words calculated to irritate 
 Mrs. Carleton 
 
 " What were they ! " interrupted Mr. Pym, when Prance had 
 got thus far in her narrative. " Can you repeat them ? " 
 
 " ' ril tell you what I shall do. Honour, when I am master 
 of Alnwick,' " repeated Prance. " ' You shall be mistress, and 
 give all the orders, and we'll have a great wall built up, so that 
 mamma can't come near us. But we'll have Georgy, and keep 
 him to ourselves.' " Those were the words. Prance continued, 
 and they seemed to irritate her mistress : she darted forward, 
 and gave the child a sharp blow on the ear. She (Prance) 
 went away, leaving a sound of noise and crying behind her. 
 Declared, if it were the last word she had to speak, that she 
 had no thought of real injury. She went through the dressing-
 
 LOCKED IN. 449 
 
 room, through the bedroom, which door she shut, and went 
 down into the dining-room. Georgy was asleep on the large 
 chair, his legs hanging down. A very short while — imme- 
 diately, indeed — her mistress followed her down ; noticed, and 
 thought it very singular, that she bolted the dining-room door 
 after her. Seemed greatly excited ; walked about in a strange 
 manner ; Prance thought she must have been quarrelling with 
 Honour. Presently she sat down, and took Georgy's feet upon 
 her lap. This gave Prance an opportunity of slipping back 
 the bolt, and quitting the room. Had not liked to do so 
 before ; must have been there at least a quarter-of-an-hour. 
 Went up to her room ; heard no noise whatever ; never sup- 
 posed but that Honour was in the nursery with Master Benja. 
 Stood a minute or two in the passage, listening ; thought she 
 might hear them speaking of the quarrel. Heard nothing — 
 all was quite still, and then supposed Honour had taken 
 Master Benja dow'n to the servants' hall, which had been for- 
 bidden by Mrs. Carleton. \Vas stealing along the passage to 
 find this out, intending to tell of her, when Honour came 
 running up the back-stairs, and Prance, not to be seen, slipped 
 into the niche until Honour should have entered the nursery. 
 Found then that Master Benja was in the nursery. Honour 
 could not open the door, and called out to ask why he had 
 turned the button. Was peeping out of the niche, and saw 
 Honour drop a load of things iVom her apron, and come flying 
 past her into the dressing-room. Did not think at the time 
 she was seen ; passage was pretty dark. Took the oppor- 
 tunity to escape into her own room, arid was lighting a candle 
 when Honour's cries startled her. Came out of her room, saw 
 Honour running down the front staircase, her cries awful. It 
 brought the servants from the kitchen, it brought Mrs. Carleton 
 and Georgy out of the dining-room ; and then she (Prance) 
 found out what had happened. That was all. 
 
 " And you mean to tell me you did not suspect anything 
 wrong until then ? " asked Mr. Pym, as she concluded. 
 
 " As I am a living, breathing woman, sir, I never suspected 
 it," answered Prance, showing for once some emotion. " I 
 don't think Honour herself was more shocked than I was." 
 
 " And why did you not tell the truth about your being in 
 the niche ? " 
 
 " Ah, sir, I did not dare. Might it not, in the questioning 
 that would have ensued, have directed suspicion to my mis- 
 
 St. M,irtin's Eve. 29
 
 450 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 tress? The moment I discovered that Honour was not in 
 the room when my mistress attacked Master Benja, I felt 
 frightened to death, fearing she had done it. I " 
 
 " Stay a minute. I don't understand," interrupted Mr. Pym. 
 "You say you looked into the nursery. You must have seen 
 that Honour was not there." 
 
 " Indeed, sir, I did not. I saw but a very small portion of 
 the room ; the door opens inwards to the wall, and obstructs 
 the best part of the room to any one standing as I did. I 
 never supposed but that Honour was present in her usual seat ; 
 otherwise I should not have left my mistress alone with the 
 child. The boy himself helped to mislead me : those few 
 words he said appeared to be spoken to Honour. I concluded 
 afterwards, that when he heard his mamma enter, he must have 
 thought it was Honour who had gone in, and was too much 
 occupied with his toy to turn his head to look." 
 
 " It's an awful thing ! " ejaculated Mr. Pym. 
 
 "It has driven my mistress mad," returned Prance. "But, 
 sir — she did not purposely set him on fire : she did not. I 
 have gathered a great deal from words she has let drop in her 
 paroxysms, and I know it was not done purposely. 'The 
 church fell and set fire to his pinafore, in blazing up,' she said 
 one night when she was moaning : and I am sure it did." 
 
 " But she bolted the door on him." 
 
 " Ah, yes, she did that ; bolted it upon him, knowing he 
 was on fire ; there's no doubt of it. I have gathered that 
 much. I think at the moment she was mad, unconscious of 
 what she did. She is not naturally cruel, only in these uncon- 
 trollable attacks. And then — and then " 
 
 "And then, what?" asked the surgeon. 
 
 " She had taken too much wine that afternoon," continued 
 Prance, lowering her voice. "Not intentionally; not from 
 the love of drinking : unthinkingly, as it were. You see, sir. 
 she had dined at the hour when she usually took her luncheon, 
 and she did not eat much, I noticed ; made a luncheon more 
 than a dinner. But she seemed to have a great thirst upon 
 her, and drank a good deal of wine ; champagne, and sherry, 
 and port ; altogether, I think her head was a little confused ; 
 indeed, I'm sure it was. She would not have beaten Benja in 
 the dining-room, but for that. Oh, the remorse that has been 
 hers ! " 
 
 " I suppose so."
 
 A MEETING IN PARIS. 451 
 
 " It is remorse that has turned her brain. I thought in 
 Flanders it would come on then ; it did in a measure; but she 
 got over it. Over and over again would she have given her 
 own life to recall the boy's ; I think she would even have given 
 Georgy's. What she did, she did in a moment of passion ; of 
 aberration ; and she has repented it ever since, and lived ip 
 dread of detection. Her horror of Honour has arisen from 
 the feeling that had the girl not left Benja alone, it could 
 not have happened, and she had not had the sin upon her. 
 Indeed, sir, she is to be pitied ; to be pitied more than 
 condemned." 
 
 " Let us think so, at any rate, Prance," remarked Mr. Pym. 
 '"' Does Mrs. Darling know this ? " 
 
 " ^Vell, sir, no ; not exactly. I have dropped a word or two, 
 and I know she guesses the rest ; but I have not said it." 
 
 " Best not, perhaps," said the surgeon. " It is a secret that 
 may remain between you and me." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 A MEETING IN PARIS. 
 
 " I WONDER why I am kept a prisoner here ? " exclaimed 
 Georgina Beauclerc. 
 
 She stood at the open French window of the Rectory draw- 
 ing-room as she said it, partly indoors, partly out, and her 
 auditor was Frederick St. John, who was coming along the 
 gravel path, in the twilight of the autumn evening, on his road 
 from Castle Wafer, Georgina had happened to walk over to 
 the Rectory early in the afternoon, and a message followed her 
 from Sir Isaac, that she was not to go back to Castle Wafer 
 until sent for. The young lady was surprised, indignant, and 
 excessively curious. The message had arrived about three 
 o'clock : it was now very nearly dinner-time, and she was not 
 released. The dean, Mrs. Beauclerc, and their guest were at 
 Lexington ; consequently, Miss Georgina had passed the hours 
 by herself, and very dull they had been. 
 
 He came up, taking off his hat as he approached, as if he 
 were warm from fast walking. Georgina retreated inside the 
 room, but waited for him at the window.
 
 452 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 (< 
 
 I have come to release you," he said, in answer to her 
 question. " I am glad you obeyed me, and stayed." 
 
 " Obeyed you ! I obeyed Sir Isaac." 
 
 "It was I who sent the message, Georgina." 
 
 " I wish I had known that ! " she exclaimed, after a breath- 
 less pause. " I never should have stayed." 
 
 He laughed. " That's why I used Isaac's name. I thought 
 you might not be obedient to me." 
 
 " Obedient to you, indeed, Mr. St. John ! I should think 
 not. Things would have come to a pretty pass ! " 
 
 She tossed back her shapely head, to show her indignation. 
 Mr. St. John only laughed again. 
 
 " Are they all out, Georgina ? " 
 
 "Yes, they are out, and I have been alone all these hours. 
 I wonder you don't take contrition to yourself." 
 
 " I wonder at it too." 
 
 " I should like to know the reason of my having beer, kept 
 here? In all the course of my experience i never met with so 
 outrageous a thing." 
 
 " Your experience has been so long a one, Georgie ! " 
 
 "Well, I am not going to be ridiculed. I shall go back to 
 Castle Wafer : perhaps Sir Isaac will be able to enlighten me. 
 You can stay behind here : they'll be home sometime." 
 
 She tied her bonnet, fastened her mantle— having stood in 
 them all the afternoon, momentarily expecting to be released, 
 as he had called it — and was hastening through the window. 
 Frederick laid a detaining hand upon her. 
 
 "Not yet, Georgina. I have come to stop your return to 
 Castle Wafer." 
 
 " I thought you said you had come to release me ! " 
 
 " I meant release you from suspense — to satisfy your curiosity, 
 which has, I suppose, been on the rack. You are not to come 
 back to Castle Wafer at all : we won't have you." 
 
 " You can let things alone," returned Georgina, throwing off 
 her bonnet. " But I think you might have told me before now 
 — keeping me with my things on all these hours ! " 
 
 " I could not conveniently come before. Well, shall I relieve 
 that curiosity of yours ? " 
 
 Again she threw up her face petulantly. " That's just as you 
 like. I don't care to hear it." 
 
 "You know you do care to hear it," he said. " But indeed, 
 Georgina " — and his half-mocking, half-tender tone changed to
 
 
 A MEETING IN PARIS. 453 
 
 seriousness — " it is a subject that I shrink from entering upon. 
 Mrs. Carleton is ill. That is the reason we are banishing you 
 for the present from Castle Wafer." 
 
 Georgina's mood changed also : the past one had been all 
 make-believe, not real. 
 
 Ill ! I am so sorry. Is it anything infectious ? " 
 I will tell you what it is, Georgina : it is insanity. That 
 she was not quite sane, I have suspected some little time ; but 
 this afternoon she has become very much worse. She locked 
 herself in her room, and Mr. Pym was obliged to burst the 
 door open, and now she is — very excited indeed. Mr. Pym 
 told me he feared some crisis was approaching." This was just 
 after she fastened herself in her room ; and I sent that message 
 to you at once. Isaac agrees with me that you had better 
 remain at home to-night : Castle Wafer will not be a very 
 sociable place this evening ; and we must respect Mrs. Darling's 
 feelings." 
 
 " Oh, I see, I see ! " impulsively interrupted Georgina, all 
 her good qualities in full play. " Of course it would not be 
 right for strangers to be there. Poor ISIrs. Darling ! But is it 
 true, Frederick ? Insane ! " 
 
 "I fear so." 
 
 " Perhaps it is some temporary fever that will pass off?" 
 
 "Well — we must hope for the best. And now — will you 
 regard this as a confidential communication ? " 
 
 " Yes, certainly ; if you wish it." 
 
 " I think it is better to do so. She may recover ; and in 
 that case it would be very sad for the report to have been 
 spread abroad. I knew I might trust you ; otherwise I should 
 not have spoken. We have had secrets together before." 
 
 " Shall you not tell papa ? " 
 
 " I shall tell him, because he knows of the matter already. 
 No one else. Should her malady be confirmed, of course it 
 will become generally known." 
 
 " Do you know, I thought you had bad news when I saw 
 your face," resumed Georgina. "You looked so worn and 
 anxious. But you have looked so for some days past." 
 
 " Have I ? I've been tired, I suppose, from want of sleep. 
 I have not been in bed for some nights. I have been 
 watching." 
 
 " Watching ! Where ? " 
 
 ** In the corridor at home."
 
 454 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Georgina looked at him in surprise. " What were you watch- 
 ing for ? " 
 
 " Oh— for ghosts." 
 
 " Please be serious. Do tell me what you mean. I don't 
 understand you in the least." 
 
 " It is so pleasant to share a secret that I think I must tell 
 it you, Georgina. You remember your nightmare ? " 
 
 " My nightmare ? Oh yes, when I fancied some one came 
 into my room. Well ? " 
 
 " Well — I thought it just possible, that instead of a nightmare 
 it might have been reality. That Mrs. Carleton, in her restless- 
 ness, had wandered out of her room. It was not an agreeable 
 thought, so I have watched every night since, lest there should 
 be a repetition of it." 
 
 Georgina was as quick as lightning at catching an idea. 
 *' You were afraid for me ! You watched to take care of 
 me!" 
 
 "Something of that sort. Did you lock your door as I 
 desired ? " 
 
 " Yes : all but one night, when I forgot to do it." 
 
 " Just so. Knowing what a forgetful, careless young lady I 
 had to deal with, I concluded that I must depend upon myself, 
 instead of her. A pretty thing, if Mrs. Carleton had run away 
 with you ! " 
 
 A few bright rays were perceptible in the western horizon, 
 illumining the twilight of the hitherto dull day. Georgina 
 Beauclerc was gazing straight out to them, a very conscious 
 look in her face. Suddenly she turned it to Mr. St John. 
 
 " Will you tell me — had your words to me last evening, 
 warning me not to be abroad, anything to do with this ? " 
 
 He nodded. " Suspecting Mrs. Carleton's malady, I did 
 not know who might be safe from her, who not : and I saw her 
 in the grounds then." 
 
 " Last night ? " 
 
 " Last night. She was close to you." 
 
 A moment's thought, which was a revelation to Georgina, 
 and she drew nearer to him with a start. " I see it ail, 
 Frederick. I remember what you said about her jealousy : 
 you have been protecting me.'' 
 
 " Trying to do it." 
 
 " How shall I thank you ? And I have been so impertinent 
 and cross ! Perhaps I owe even my life to you ! "
 
 A MEETING IN PARIS. 455 
 
 " I have not done it for nothing, I can tell you, young lady. 
 I have been thinking of my repayment all through it." 
 
 He put his arm round her before she could get away, and 
 drew her close to him. His voice became low and tender; his 
 face, bent to hers, was radiant with persuasive eloquence. 
 
 " I told you last night that I thought I had saved you from a 
 great danger " 
 
 "And you repaid yourself," interrupted Georgina, with a dash 
 of her native sauciness, and a glow on her blushing cheeks. 
 
 " No, I did not. I — don't know whether it's this watching 
 after your safety, or what else it may be ; but I have arrived at 
 the conviction, that I shall have to take care of you for life. 
 Georgina, we might have known years ago that it would come 
 to this." 
 
 " Known that ! When you only hated me ! " 
 
 " If I hated you then — which I did not — I love you now. I 
 cannot part with you. Georgina, my darling, I shall never part 
 with you. I don't think you would like to part with me." 
 
 Her heart beat as it had never beaten before in her life ; her 
 eyes were blinded with tears. Joy so great as this had never 
 been foreshadowed, except in some rare dream. He kissed 
 the tears away. 
 
 " But it cannot be that you love me," she whispered. 
 
 " I love you dearly ; although I once told a friend of yours 
 that I would not marry Georgina Beauclerc though there were 
 not another English girl extant. He saw into the future, it 
 may be also into my heart, more clearly than I did." 
 
 " You said that ? To a friend of mine ! Who was it ? " 
 
 " One who lies buried in the cloisters at Westerbury." 
 
 Her eyes went far out again to that light in the west. The 
 words carried her back again to those past days, — to the hand- 
 some boy who had so loved her. 
 
 " You never cared for him, poor fellow ! " observed Mr. St. 
 John. 
 
 " No : I never cared but for one in my life," she softly 
 whispered. 
 
 " I know that. He was the first to tell me of it. Not that I 
 — as I believe now — needed telling. Georgina, they say 
 marriages are made in heaven ; I think we might have seen, 
 
 even then, that we were destined for each other What's 
 
 the matter ? " 
 
 Georgina darted away from him as if she had been shot.
 
 456 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Her ears were quicker than his. The dean's carriage was 
 approaching ; was close upon them. 
 
 " I suppose I may speak to him, Georgma ? " 
 
 " Perhaps if I said no, you wouldn't listen to me. You 
 always did contrive to have your own way, and I suppose you 
 will take it still. But I think you are very unfeeling — very 
 cruel ; and I am as bad." 
 
 " I know what you mean : that we should allow — this — to 
 ensue upon the news I c^me to tell you. Poor Mrs. Carleton ! 
 We shall have time and to spare, I fear, for all our best sym- 
 pathies. Oh, child ! you don't know what my anxiety on your 
 score has been ! But it has served to show me, what I was 
 only half convinced of before : my love for you." 
 
 The dean came in. Georgina escaped to her mother and 
 Miss Denison. The latter spoke crossly to her. "Ah," 
 thought Georgina, " would she dare to abuse me if she only 
 knew whose wife I am going to be ? " and she actually kissed 
 the astonished Miss Denison, in her great happiness. 
 
 Mr. St. John spoke to the dean. Of Mrs. Carleton first : 
 and the dean was both shocked and surprised to find the 
 crisis had come on so quickly. He then said that he and Sir 
 Isaac thought it better that Georgina should for the moment 
 quit Castle Wafer. 
 
 " Quite right," said the dean. " She ought not to have 
 stayed there so long. Of course she should not, had I been 
 aware of this. The fact is, she would not come home ; you 
 heard her ; she has a great affection for Castle Wafer." 
 
 " Would you very much mind, sir, if she some time came 
 back to it for good ? " 
 
 "Eh?" said the dean, turning his surprised eyes sharply on 
 Mr. St. John. " Who wants that ? " 
 
 " I do. I have been asking her if she will do so." 
 
 " And what does she say ? " 
 
 A smile crossed Mr. St. John's lips. " She said I generally 
 contrived to have my own way, and she supposed I should 
 have it now." 
 
 " Ah, well ; I have thought it might come to that ! But I 
 cannot bear to part with her. Frederick St. John " — and the 
 dean spoke with emotion as he wrung his hand — " I would 
 rather you took her from me than any other man in the 
 world."
 
 A MEETING IN PARIS. 457 
 
 It was a lovely day in the following spring, and Paris was 
 gay and bright. In a handsome house in one of its best 
 quarters, its drawing-rooms presenting that blended aspect of 
 magnificence and lightness which you rarely see out of the 
 French capital, were a group of three people ; two ladies, both 
 brides of a week or two, and a gentleman. Never did eye 
 gaze on two more charming brides, than Madame de la Chasse, 
 that house's mistress, and Mrs. Frederick St. John. 
 
 Are you prepared to hear that that mistress was Rose ? She 
 sat laughing gaily, throwing back, as was her wont of old, that 
 mass of golden curls. Her marriage had taken many by 
 surprise, Frederick St. John for one ; and he was now joking 
 her about it. 
 
 " It was quite impossible to believe it, you know. Rose. I 
 thought you would not have condescended to marry a French- 
 man." 
 
 " I'd rather have married you," freely confessed Rose, and 
 they all laughed. " But he has changed now ; he has become 
 presentable, thanks to me ; and I don't intend to let him lapse 
 again." 
 
 "I am sure you are happy ! " said Georgina. " I see it in 
 your face." 
 
 "Well, the truth is, I do like him a little bit," answered 
 Rose, with a shy sort of blush, which spoke more plainly than 
 her words. " And then he is so fond and proud of me ; and 
 heaps such luxuries upon me. It all arose through my staying 
 at the Castellas' last autumn ; he was always coming there." 
 
 " You know. Rose " — and Mr. St. John took her hand and 
 spoke in all seriousness, — "that I wish you both, from my 
 very heart, every happiness." 
 
 "And I'm sure I wish it to you," she said. "And I think 
 you might have told me when I used to tease you about 
 Sarah Beauclerc, that I was wrong in the Christian name. I 
 suspected it last year when I saw you both together at Castle 
 Wafer." 
 
 "Not then," interrupted Georgina; "you could not have 
 seen it then." 
 
 " I did, though ; I'm clever in that line, ]\Irs. St. John. I 
 used to see his eyes follow you about, and he would leave me 
 at any moment for you. How is Sir Isaac ? " 
 
 " Quite well," answered Mr. St. John, " and as happy in my 
 marriage as a child. Our ostensible home, after all, is to be
 
 458 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. 
 
 Alnwick ; but I dare say we shall spend with him eight months 
 out of every year at Castle Wafer." 
 
 "And my ill-fated half-sister, Mrs. Carleton St. John?" 
 asked Rose, a deep shade of sadness clouding her radiant face. 
 " Is there tio hope of her restoration? " 
 
 " I fear none," he replied. 
 
 " I wonder sometimes whether they are quite kind to her in 
 that private asylum ? " 
 
 " There's no doubt they are. Mr. Pym sees her sometimes ; 
 your mamma often. But that of course you know better than 
 I do." 
 
 " I wanted mamma to take me to see her before I left 
 England for good ; but she would not." 
 
 "And so much the better," said Mr. St. John. "It could 
 not be well for you, Madame de la Chasse." 
 
 " ' Madame de la Chasse ! ' " she echoed. " Well, it sounds 
 curious to hear you call me so. Ah ! how strange ! that he 
 should have married me ; and you — Poor Adeline ! Does 
 your wife know about her ? " suddenly questioned Rose, in her 
 careless way. 
 
 " Yes," spoke up Georgina. 
 
 "Old loves go for nothing when we come to be married. 
 We laugh at the past then, and think what love-sick silly 
 children we were. I have settled down into the most sober 
 wife living." 
 
 " It looks like it," cried Mr. St. John. 
 
 " I have^' retorted Rose, " whether it looks like it or not. 
 I shall be as good and steady a matron as your wife there, who 
 loves you to her fingers' ends." 
 
 Georgina laughed and blushed as they rose to leave, pro- 
 mising plenty of visits to the young Baroness during their stay 
 in Paris, 
 
 In going out, they met the Baron. Georgina was surprised 
 to see so good-looking a man ; for Mr. St. John had described 
 to her his close-cut hair and his curled moustache. That was 
 altered now ; the hair was in light waves ; the moustache 
 reduced to propriety : Rose said she had made him presentable. 
 
 He was very cordial ; had apparently forgotten old scores 
 against I\Ir. St, John, and pressed the hospitality of his house 
 upon them as long as they were in Paris. Their frequent pre- 
 sence in it, he said, would complete the bliss of himself and 
 his wife.
 
 A MEETING IX PARIS. 459 
 
 "Frederick," exclaimed (ieorgina, thoughtfully, when they 
 had returned to their hotel, " should you think the Baron ever 
 loved Adeline as he does Rose ? He is evidently very fond 
 of her." 
 
 " Perhaps he did not. His intended marriage with Adeline 
 was a contract ; with Rose he had time to fall in love." 
 
 " And — perhaps — you never loved her so very, very deeply ! " 
 timidly rejoined Georgina, raising to him her grey-blue eyes." 
 
 " I must say one thing," he answered, smiling ; " that if a 
 certain young lady of my particular acquaintance is not satisfied 
 with her husband's love " 
 
 She did not let him go on ; she threw herself into his shelter- 
 ing arms, the tears of emotion falling from her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, my husband, my darling ; you know, you know ! I 
 think you must have loved me a little all through ; even when 
 we used to quarrel at Westerbury." 
 
 " I think I did, Georgina. Of one fact you may be very 
 sure, that I would not exchange my wife for any other, living 
 or dead. I hope, I believe, under Heaven's blessing, that I 
 may so love her to the end." 
 
 " Amen," softly breathed Georgina. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWKS AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.
 
 MRS. HENRY WOOD'S NOVELS. 
 
 Sale between One and Two Million Copies. 
 
 EAST LYNNE. 400M Thousand. 
 
 THE CHANNINGS. 140/A Thousand. 
 
 MRS. HALLIBURTON'S TROUBLES. 120//? Thousand 
 
 THE SHADOW OF ASHLYDYAT. ^^th Thousand 
 
 LORD OAKBURN'S DAUGHTERS. Ilth Thousand. 
 
 VERNER'S PRIDE, d^th Thousand. 
 
 ROLAND YORKE. \ooth Thousand. 
 
 JOHNNY LUDLOW. First Series. 50/A Thousand. 
 
 MILDRED ARKELL. 68^^ Thousand. 
 
 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. doth Thousand. 
 
 TREVLYN HOLD. 54/A Thousand. 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. %oth Thousand. 
 
 THE RED COURT FARM. 44//^ Thousand 
 
 WITHIN THE MAZE. 65/A Thousand. 
 
 ELSTER'S FOLLY. 35/A Thousand. 
 
 LADY ADELAIDE. 35//% Thousand. 
 
 OSWALD CRAY. 35/A Thousand. 
 
 JOHNNY LUDLOW. Second Series. 2yd Thousand. 
 
 ANNE HEREFORD. 35/A Thousand. 
 
 DENE HOLLOW, i^th Thousand. 
 
 ED IN A. 25 M Thousand. 
 
 A LIFE'S SECRET. 38M Thousand. 
 
 COURT NETHERLEIGH. 26/A Thousand. 
 
 BESSY RANE. 30//% Thousand. 
 
 JOHNNY LUDLOW. Third Series. 13M Thousand. 
 
 THE MASTER OF GREYLANDS. loth Thousand. 
 
 ORVILLE COLLEGE, lyd Thousand. 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 30M Thousand. 
 
 JOHNNY LUDLOW. Fourth Series. New Edition. 
 
 LONDON : 
 RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, New Burlington Street, W. 
 
 Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.
 
 CRITICISMS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 EAST LYNNE. 
 
 "'East Lynne ' is so full of incident, so exciting in every page, and so 
 admirably written, that one hardly knows how to go to bed without reading 
 to the very last page." — The Observer. 
 
 "A work of remarkable power which displays a force of description and a 
 dramatic completeness we have seldom seen surpassed. The interest of the 
 narrative intensifies itself to the deepest pathos. The closing scene is in the 
 highest degree tragic, and the whole management of the story exhibits un- 
 questionable genius and originality." — The i3aily News. 
 
 THE CHANNINGS. 
 " 'The Channings' will probably be read over and over again, and it can 
 never be read too often." — The Athen^um. 
 
 MRS. HALLIBURTON'S TROUBLES. 
 "The boldness, originality, and social scrutiny displayed in this work 
 remind the reader of Adam Bede. It would be difficult to place beside the 
 death of Edgar Halliburton anything in fiction comparable with its profound 
 pathos and simplicity. It is long since the novel-reading world has had 
 reason so thoroughly to congratulate itself upon the appearance of a new work 
 as in the instance of ' Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles.' It is a fine work ; a great 
 and artistic picture." — The Morning Post. 
 
 THE SHADOW OF ASHLYDYAT. 
 "'The Shadow of Ashlydyat' is very clever, and keeps up the constant 
 interest of the reader. It has a slight supernatural tinge, which gives the 
 romantic touch to the story which Sir Walter Scott so often used with even 
 greater effect ; but it is not explained away at the end as Sir Walter Scott's 
 supernatural touches generally, and inartistically, were." — The Spectator. 
 
 LADY ADELAIDE. 
 
 " One of Mrs. Henry Wood's best novels." — The Star. 
 
 " Mme. Henry Wood est fort celebre en Angleterre, et ses romans — tres 
 moraux et tres bien ecrits — sont dans toutes les mains et revivent dans toutes 
 les memoires. Le serment de lady Adelaide donneront a nos lecteurs une idee 
 tres suffisante du talent si eleve de mistress Heniy Wood." — Instruction 
 
 PUBLIQUE. 
 
 ROLAND YORKE. 
 "In all respects worthy of the hand that wrote 'The Channings' and 
 ' East Lynne.' There is no lack of excitement to wile the reader on, and 
 from the first to the last a well-planned story is sustained with admirable spirit 
 and in a masterly style." — The Daily News. 
 
 VERNER'S PRIDE. 
 " ' Verner's Pride ' is a first-rate novel in its breadth of outline and 
 brilliancy of description. Its exciting events, its spirited scenes, and its vivid 
 details, all contribute to its triumph. The interest this work awakens, and 
 the admiration it excites in the minds of its readers, must infallibly tend to the 
 renown of the writer, while they herald the welcome reception of the work 
 wherever skill in construction of no ordinary kind, or a ready appreciation of 
 character, which few possess, can arouse attention or win regard." — The Sun 
 
 OSWALD CRAY. 
 " Mrs. Wood has certainly an art of novel-writing which no rival possesses 
 in the same degree and kind. It is not, we fancy, a common experience for 
 anyone to leave one of these novels unfinished." — The Spectator.
 
 CRITICISMS OF THE PRESS. iir 
 
 BESSY KANE. 
 "The power to draw minutely ami carefully each character with character- 
 istic individuality in word and action is Mrs. Wood's especial gift. This 
 endows her pages with a vitality which carries the reader to the end, and 
 leaves him with the feeling that tlie veil which in real life separates man from 
 man has been raised, and that he has for once seen and known certain people 
 as intimately as if he had been their guardian angel. This is a great 
 fascination." — The Athen^um. 
 
 LORD OAKBURN'S DAUGHTERS. 
 *' The story is admirably told." — The Spectator. 
 
 DENE HOLLOW. 
 
 "Novel-readers wishing to be entertained, and deeply interested in 
 character and incident, will find their curiosity wholesomely gratified by the 
 graphic pages of ' Dene Hollow,' an excellent novel, without the drawbacks 
 of wearisome digressions and monotonous platitudes so common in the chapters 
 of modern fiction." — The Morning Post. 
 
 LESTER'S FOLLY. 
 " Mrs. Wood fulfils all the requisites of a good novelist : she interests- 
 people in her books, makes them anxious about the characters, and furnishes 
 an intricate and carefully woven plot." — The Morning Post. 
 
 MILDRED ARKELL. 
 " Mrs. Henry Wood certainly possesses in a wholly exceptional degree the 
 power of uniting the most startling incident of supernatural influence, with a 
 certain probability and naturalness which compels the most critical and 
 sceptical reader, having once begun, to go on reading. ... He finds himself 
 conciliated by some bit of quiet picture, some accent of poetic tenderness, 
 some sweet domestic touch telling of a heart exercised in the rarer experiences ; 
 and as he proceeds he wonders more and more at the manner in which the 
 mystery, the criminality, the plotting, and the murdering reconciles itself with 
 a quiet sense of the justice of things ; and a great moral lesson is, after all, 
 found to lie in the heart of all the turmoil and exciting scene-shifting. It is 
 this which has earned for Mrs. Wood so high a place among popular novelists,, 
 and secured her admittance to homes from which the sensational novelists- 
 so-called are excluded."— The Nonconformist. 
 
 SAINT MARTIN'S EVE. 
 " A good novel."— The Spectator. 
 
 " Mrs. Wood has spared no pains to accumulate the materials for a 
 curiously thriUing story." — TiiE Saturday Review. 
 
 ANNE HEREFORD. 
 " Mrs. Wood's story, ' Anne Hereford,' is a favourable specimen of her 
 manner; the incidents are well planned, and the narrative is easy and 
 vigorous." — The Illustrated London News. 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 "The name of Mrs. Henry Wood has been familiar to novel-readers for 
 many years, and her fame widens and strengthens with the increase in the 
 number of her books." — The Morning Post. 
 
 A LIFE'S SECRET. 
 
 " Now that the rights of capital and labour are being fully inquired into, 
 Mrs. Wood's story of ' A Life's Secret ' is particularly opportune and interest- 
 ing. It is based upon a plot that awakens curiosity and keeps it alive 
 throughout. The hero and heroine are marked with individuality, the love- 
 passages are finely drawn, and the story developed with judgment." — The 
 Civil Service Gazette.
 
 iv CRITICISMS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 HE RED COURT FARM. 
 "When we say t .. plot displays Mrs. Wood's well-known skill in con- 
 struction, our readeia will quite understand that their attention will be 
 enchained by it from the first page to the last." — The Weekly Dispatch. 
 
 TREVLYN HOLD. 
 
 " We cannot read a page of this work without discovering a graphic force 
 of delineation which it would not be easy to surpass." — The Daily News. 
 
 WITHIN THE MAZE. 
 "The decided novelty and ingenuity of the plot of ' Within the Maze' 
 renders it, in our eyes, one of Mrs. Henry Wood's best novels. It is ' 
 excellently developed, and the interest hardly flags for a moment." — The 
 Graphic. 
 
 THE MASTER OF GREYLANDS. 
 
 " A book by Mrs. Wood is sure to be a good one, and no one who opens 
 ' The Master of Greylands ' in anticipation of an intellectual treat will be 
 disappointed. The keen analysis of character, and the admirable manage- 
 ment of the plot, alike attest the clever novelist." — John Bull. 
 
 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 The First Series. 
 " We regard these stories as almost perfect of their kind."^ — The Spectator. 
 " Fresh, lively, vigorous, and full of clever dialogue, they will meet with a 
 ready welcome." — The Standard. 
 
 ORVILLE COLLEGE. 
 " Mrs. Wood's stories bear the impress of her versatile talent and well-known 
 skill in turning to account the commonplaces of daily life as well as the 
 popular superstitions of the multitude." — 1 HE LiTERAjiY World. 
 
 PARKWATER. 
 "Mrs. Wood's pleasant style and vivid imagination were never more 
 pleasantly manifested." — John Bull. 
 
 EDINA. 
 
 "The whole situation of the book is clever, and the plot is well managed." 
 — Academy. 
 
 " Edina's character is beautifully drawn."— The Literary World. 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 " All the Pomeroys are very cleverly individualised, and the way in which 
 the mystery is worked up, including its one horribly tragic incident, is really 
 beyond all praise." — The Morning Post. 
 
 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 The Second Series. 
 " The author has given proof of a rarer dramatic instinct than we had sus- 
 pected among our living writers of fiction. It is not possible by means of 
 extracts to convey any adequate sense of the humour, the pathos, the dramatic 
 power and graphic description of this book."— The Nonconformist. 
 
 COURT NETHERLEIGH. 
 
 " We always open one of Mrs. Wood's novels with pleasure, because we are 
 sure of being amused and interested." — The Times. 
 
 " Lisez-le ; I'emotion que vous sentirez peu a peu monter a votre coeur est 
 saine et fortifiante. Lisez-ie ; c'est un livre honnete sorti d'une plume honnete 
 et vous pourrez le laisser trainer sur la table." — Le Sigx-^l {Paris).
 
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